Anywhere You Go
by sonyaelflady
Summary: Starts as an alternative ending to the BtVS episode "Wrecked" - Willow runs away from Sunnydale and ends up in Hogsmeade just in time to deal with the aftermath of a Death Eater prank. Then things get interesting. Many pairings, but primarily Willow/Sna
1. Lost and Pathetic

Title: Lost and Pathetic

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue – all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats. 

Spoilers: Up to "Wrecked" in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: An alternative ending to the episode "Wrecked".

***

The house was empty. Of course, it would be – Buffy had taken Dawn to the hospital. Amy had gone back to her dad's. And Tara was gone; Willow didn't even know where she'd gone, where she was living now. It hadn't seemed appropriate to ask. _Or maybe I was just scared that she wouldn't answer me. Wouldn't want me to know where she lives. Maybe I just didn't want to know how badly I'd broken her trust. _

Broke Tara's trust. Broke Dawn's arm tonight. Broke Buffy, pulling her out of heaven. The house is empty because I'm in it. I broke everything. 

Willow didn't turn the lights on, making her way up the familiar stairs by feel. She blinked in the faint moonlight when she reached her doorway, staring in at the trampled, ransacked mess of a room. _Am I hallucinating this? _A bundle of dried sage crunched under her feet as she stepped hesitantly in the doorway. _No, I don't think so._

Rack's tainted magic was still tingling faintly along her nerves, creating a weird and nauseating mixture of pleasure and revulsion. It still felt vaguely good, but it wasn't strong enough now to overwhelm the feeling of wrongness. Her skin felt like it didn't fit, her insides itched and ached. She couldn't quite tell if she felt too hot or too cold, but somehow everything was just off. It wasn't exactly painful, but she had the disconcerting urge to start screaming. 

It was occurring to her belatedly how stupid she had been. Willow knew better than to take drinks from strangers. Didn't smoke. Wore sunscreen. Probably would have died of pure shock if anyone had even thought to offer her a joint. She was a good girl. She was sensible. _And I let some scuzzy freaky-eyed guy do god-knows-what to me. Just to get out of my head. I don't even know what he did, because regular old magic doesn't feel like that. It's trippy, yeah, but not like that. _

She sat down on the end of the bed, picking up a shirt that had been tossed across it and examining the material disinterestedly. 

__

I broke Dawnie's arm. Just to get out of my head. 

I don't think this is gonna work . . 

A small suitcase had been flung out of the closet; it had landed next to a pile of old notebooks. Willow put down the shirt, picked up the suitcase, set it on the bed and flicked it open. She dropped the shirt inside. She grabbed a skirt from the floor near the wall, meandered dreamily into the bathroom and retrieved her toothbrush. It felt like she was moving in slow motion, walking through a thick flood of near-delirium. The aftereffects of her magic-induced high had moved on rapidly from disconcerting to numb and disorienting. Nothing felt quite real. _That's good. Do it before it sinks in. Get out of here. _

She moved to her underwear-and-socks drawer, which remained undisturbed. Everything was neatly folded, little colorful squares and balls. She pulled the entire drawer out of the dresser and upended it over the suitcase. 

Her jewelry box had already been pulled haphazardly apart, and it looked like someone had tried to force the lock on the bottom compartment – she murmured something under her breath and it sprang open. She pulled out her emergency stash – several hundred cash, plus traveler's cheques, and an extra passport, assembled there in the weeks after Buffy's death. An attempt at learning from their mistakes, after that desperate flight into the desert. Dawn had a similar stash, at Willow's insistence, but Dawnie's included clothes and non-perishable food items. She called it her life-in-a-box.

__

I broke her arm. Ran her right into a wall.

A wad of cash went into her pocket; the remainder went into the suitcase, tossed on top of socks and bras. The suitcase closed with a neat snap. 

The walk to the bus stop was surreal; she realized she was shaking when she dropped the suitcase. It popped open in the middle of the deserted street, spewing money and socks everywhere. She retrieved most of it, but bending over was starting to make her head spin and her vision go gray, and she thought she might have missed some.

__

Gonna make somebody's day tomorrow if I left a bundle of cash lying under a bush .. 

She bent to pick up the mostly reassembled suitcase, lost her balance, lurched forward and vomited onto the sidewalk. 

Willow crouched there, eyes tightly shut, panting and sweaty and suddenly freezing cold, feeling reality seep back in. She ached. She'd scraped both knees when she fell. But she felt clearer. It suddenly occurred to her that there probably wouldn't be a bus until morning. There were vampires out here. And demons. And the thought of doing anything more magically strenuous than levitating a pencil was making her stomach heave again. _In short, this is an excellent way to get very dead. _

But it's still the right thing, isn't it? You've got to get away from here. You can't stay and pretend it'll get better, and hurt someone else. 

She felt around for the suitcase and stumbled a few feet forward before opening her eyes, not particularly wanting to see what she'd puked up. Once it seemed she'd gone a safe distance, she sat down on the curb, setting the suitcase on her knees and hugging it to her chest.

__

And for one million dollars, the question is . . what now? 

I don't think suicide-by-nighttime-stroll-in-Sunnydale is a responsible option, appealingly effortless as it is. It gets major points for not involving any further movement. But could involve getting turned, and thus it flunks the not-hurting-anyone-else requirement. 

I don't think I really want to die. Just not too sure about that living thing anymore, either. 

Welcome to rock bottom, population me.

Willow slumped down over her suitcase, cradling her throbbing forehead against her left elbow, her right arm flung out despondently.

__

I just need to get away –

There was a sudden deafening _BANG_.

Willow screeched and scrambled backwards on all fours, as something huge and very purple came to a shuddering stop in the street right in front of her. 

It was a bus. An enormous, purple, triple-decker bus. _And unless I'm doing the trippy thing again, it just appeared out of nowhere. _Willow stumbled to her feet, staring, wondering idly if it was more appropriate to run like hell or start laughing hysterically. _It's a giant grape-coolaid-colored apparition of a bus. _

The doors on the bus opened with a metallic squeal, and a young man in an equally purple uniform jumped down onto the sidewalk. 

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard," he began reciting. "Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening." He paused. "And I'd like to congratulate you on being our farthest-flung call ever. Never got no calls from California before."

Willow gaped. Stan waited expectantly, standing politely to one side of the door with his arms folded. 

"Er, miss? You did call us, dincha?" he asked. 

"I .. um .." Willow stammered. 

"You are stranded?"

"I think so," Willow squeaked. _Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard?_

"So where'd you need t'get to?" Stan asked, giving her an impatient look.

"I don't know," Willow answered a little dazedly. 

"You dunno," Stan repeated incredulously, sounding as if he were beginning to doubt her sanity.

"Um, not here?" Willow offered. Stan just glared at her. "How about wherever you're going next?"

"London," Stan answered. "That's .. from 'ere . . gotta figger that a minute, never got out this way afore .. guess a Galleon an' five Sickles."

"A huh and five what?" Willow asked. _And how does a bus get from California to London? And why am I seriously considering getting on the giant radioactive grape, anyway?_

"A Galleon," Stan said slowly, "an' five Sickles. If you ain't got it, could drop you off somewhere 'tween here and there .. New York, maybe?"

"A Galleon like .. an old Spanish ship?" Willow asked, bewildered. _I thought he sounded English. _Stan sighed. 

"You dunno what a Galleon is?" His tone suggested it was a feat of ignorance comparable to not knowing how to tie your own shoes. "You got any wizard money at all?"

"Wizard money?" 

Stan just stared disbelievingly. 

"Um, I have regular US-dollars money," Willow offered, holding out two twenties. "Is that enough?"

"Don't take Muggle money," Stan said firmly. "You *sure* you called? There weren't nobody else around? In robes, maybe?"

"Nobody else," Willow shook her head. "Uh, what's a Muggle?" _And . . robes? Like judge's robes? Or like bathrobes?_

"What's the hold-up?" called an annoyed voice from inside the bus.

"Comin', Ern!" Stan turned around and called. He frowned and looked a little embarrassed when he addressed Willow again. "Look, uh, sorry 'bout this, but we gotta get on, and if'n you got no money –"

"It's okay," Willow assured him, swallowing down a lump in her throat. _Great. Even the giant purple freak bus won't have me. _"It's no big. I can walk to .. wherever." He was giving her a pitying look. _And I'm getting sad looks from the conductor of the giant purple freak bus. My life is officially several levels below totally sucking. And .. dang it, I wanted to find out what was up with the bus. It's all purple. And freaky. And begging to be researched. But no, no researchy goodness for Willow. Please see above re: life sucks. _

She picked up her suitcase, shrugging and trying not to sound as awkward as she felt. "You know, it's good exercise, and .. uh, bye." She turned to leave, wondering vaguely where exactly she was going to go on foot. 

__

Maybe I could just chug some holy water, and then reconsider the whole suicide-by-moonlit-stroll-on-the-Hellmouth idea. I wonder if that'd work. Holy-water-filled belly, no getting turned. Instant dustiness. I should tell – 

The girl I pulled out of heaven, who's sister's arm I just broke. Right. Keep walking. 

"Hey!" Stan called after her. "Hey, I got a thought .." She paused, glancing back at him. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Seein' as you haven't got a destination in mind . . we wouldn't be goin' nowhere 'specially for you, an' it's not like we're 'xactly bustin' at the seams with passengers tonight, so . ."

"So?" Willow asked weakly.

"So this one's on me," Stan said, shrugging and stuffing both hands in his pockets. "But don't you be tellin' nobody. We sorta specialize in lost an' pathetic, see, so can't have ever'body thinkin' they can get a free ride just for bein' . . well . . " he suddenly seemed to realize she might consider 'lost and pathetic' to be an insulting sort of description.

"It's okay. Lost and pathetic. That'd be me," Willow said with a self-deprecating shrug. She bit her lip. "You're sure you're not gonna get in trouble for this?"

"Nah," Stan scoffed. "Ern won't care, so just s'long as you don't go spreadin' it about -"

"These lips are sealed," Willow assured him, hefting her bag and stepping onto the bus. "I officially owe you one. Or two. Or lots. Do you like cookies?" The young conductor was giving her a look that said he was once again doubting her sanity. "It's what I do," she explained. "Cookies. I bake. Well, that's not the only thing I do, but it's the thing I do when I owe people, and - oh!"

Willow stopped abruptly, staring down the center isle of the bus; the sides were lined not with seats, but with brass beds. Wide, comfortable looking brass beds. And the entire interior - which looked suspiciously larger and more stable than the radioactive-grape exterior - was lit by soft candlelight. 

"Never been on a wizard bus before either, eh?" Stan asked. 

Willow shook her head. There was a woman asleep in a bed near the back, an impressive array of multicolored carpet bags set beside the footboard, and hanging up on a small peg on the wall near the window was a witch's hat. A black, pointy, wide-brimmed, wicked-witch-of-the-west hat. _And I am soooo not in Kansas anymore._

"And you ain't got *no* idea where you need to be?" Stan queried again. "I won't take it back, 'bout it bein' free, if you thought of a place . . "

"Not a clue," Willow answered honestly. _Not one single clue anywhere in sight. About anything. And great Goddess, that is a *witch's hat*. There are witches somewhere that actually wear them? And there are giant purple busses that appear out of thin air. How did I miss this?_

"Right then," Stan said with a sigh. "Just pick a bed. Don't matter where, but you feel the bumps less 'round the middle."

Willow nodded absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the black pointy hat. Its owner rolled over in her sleep with a slight frown. She had dusty blonde hair, and a faint smattering of freckles across her decidedly ordinary, middle-aged face. And she wore that hat. 

"You'll lemme know when someplace catches your eye, then?" Stan prompted. 

"Where she's going," Willow blurted, before she was even aware of the idea forming in her mind. "The lady with the hat. Wherever she's going." She turned to the young conductor with a questioning look, and saw that he was eyeing her warily again. 

"That'd be 'ogsmeade," he said, slowly. He paused a minute, as if expecting her to recognize the name. 

"Ogsmeade?" Willow repeated.

"*Hogs*meade," Stan enunciated.

"Oh," Willow said. "That's kinda funny. Hogs and mead. Drunken hogs." She giggled slightly. Stan watched her as if he expected her brain to start dribbling out her ears at any moment. "So, um, yeah. I want to go to Hogsmeade," Willow affirmed, in what she hoped was a reasonable and sane sort of voice.

"Got any family there? Friends or anythin'?" Stan asked.

"No, I don't think so," Willow answered. _I just want to go to the place where people wear pointy witchy hats, because I think that's probably about as far out of my reality as I could possibly get. _Stan sighed. 

"Well you're gonna have a problem then," he said, with a hint of exasperation creeping into his weary voice. "'ogsmeade's all wizarding folk."

Willow stared at him blankly.

"They won't take Muggle money?" he prompted, his expression now suggesting she was not only mad as a hatter but also an utter idiot.

"Oh," Willow sighed dejectedly. "Well, I guess . . I guess I'll think of somewhere else then . ." 

Stan gave an explosive, long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes. "Oh bloody 'ell," he exclaimed. "You got muggle bills an' coins and stuff, right?"

"Yeah," Willow answered, puzzled. _But he just said regular-people money's no good. _

"I reckon my kid brother'd think that was real neat," he said, digging in his pockets and producing a handful of coins in gold, silver and bronze. "I 'spose I could trade ya. You got all different ones?"

"Um, yeah," Willow said, after a moment's stunned pause, digging in her pockets. She pulled out a twenty, a ten and some ones, and a handful of loose change. "What's the exchange rate? I can do those in my head. Is this good?" She held the disorganized wad of money out to him. 

"Dunno 'xactly," Stan shrugged, thrusting the heavy coins into her empty hand. He held up a one dollar bill and examined it. "Look'at that - picture's just sittin' there. Looks like 'e's starin' at me, don't he? Not blinkin' or nothin'."

"They do that," Willow commented, examining her newly acquired currency. She had no way of knowing, but she suspected the many gold coins she now held amounted to considerably more than the thirty-four dollars and change she'd turned over. "Er, that is, look like they're doing that. They can't actually be staring at you, 'cause, you know, picture."

"Creepy," Stan said, but he was grinning. "Jimmy'll love this."

"You're sure this is right?" Willow asked. "I think you might have given me too much -"

"Close enough," Stan mumbled awkwardly. "S'not like I'm gonna spend yours, anyhow. But - you won't be *tellin'* nobody, will you? 'cause this ain't Gringotts, y'know, can't have people thinkin' we're bloody money-changers now too."

"I will take it to the grave," Willow solemnly assured him; he looked at her oddly again. "Er, it's an expression. Like, I won't tell anybody until I'm dead." He looked non-plussed. "And then, you know, dead. So can't tell." That reaching-for-a-straight-jacket-soon expression was back. Willow giggled self-consciously. "Guess it's an American thing. Or – Muggle? Did I say that right? Muggle thing. Just means - won't tell. There will be no telling."

"That's fine, then," Stan said. "Y'might as well settle in. 'ogsmeade's last stop. Think we're ready to go, Ern!" he called up to the driver.

"'Bout time!" the driver called back. Stan hurried up towards the front of the bus, as Willow settled down onto a bed near the middle. "Thanks again!" she called after the young man, and she thought she saw the back of his neck flush red, but he gave no indication that he'd heard her. 

There was a loud bang, and with a sharp jerk that made Willow yelp and drop the coins onto the bedspread, the bus was moving. She plucked up the coins and poured them into her pocket, then lay down, facing towards the back of the bus; towards the pointy black witch's hat.


	2. Hogsmeade

Title: Hogsmeade 

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue – all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats. 

Spoilers: Up to "Wrecked" in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Hermione has relationship issues, Willow has sanity issues, lots of big black birds are never a good sign and reading out loud in a language you don't know is never a good idea.

***

Harry was starting to wish he hadn't even come to Hogsmeade. 

"How about this?" Hermione asked, holding up a thick book entitled 'The History of the Broomstick' and biting her lip uncertainly.

"Cost you a fortune in postage," Ron answered. "'sides, anything that says 'history of' in the title's bound to be boring." Hermione scowled at him, but put the book back. 

"I don't mind about the postage," she said, scanning the store shelves. "My parents said they'd help out, they think it's the least they can do after his parents were so absolutely wonderful to me this summer, and so considerate, too – did I tell you they had a muggle telephone in my room, so I could call home?"

"You've mentioned," Ron said dryly. "How 'bout one of these?" He held up a strand of flashing and snapping neon lights, meant to be attached to the end of a broomstick. 

"Oh, _please_," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Will you be _serious_?"

"I was!" Ron protested. Hermione gave an exasperated sigh and stalked off in the direction of broom care kits. "What?" Ron demanded, following her. "I really was!" 

Harry trudged glumly after them. _I could be studying for exams right now; I'd *rather* be studying for exams right now. Potions, even. _

"If you're not going to be helpful the least you can do is be quiet!" Hermione snapped at Ron. 

"I don't see what the great bloody deal is!" Ron yelled back. "We've been at this for *hours!* Just pick something!"

"He's got a point," Harry muttered. Hermione whipped around to glare at him. "I just meant, you know, it's the thought that counts."

"Yeah," Ron chimed in enthusiastically. "Dobby thought a dirty sock was the best present ever!"

"And I suppose you think I should send Viktor a dirty sock," Hermione said in a dangerously level tone, fists planted firmly on hips.

"Well he'd probably hang it on his bloody wall, if it was from you, Hermy-own-ninny," Ron retorted. Harry winced as Hermione flushed a splotchy red. _Detention with Snape. I'd officially rather be in detention with Snape. _

"Oh, you are _so _immature!" she exploded. "Just because *you* don't have a significant other is no reason to be so bitter and petty towards those of us who do!" She stormed out of 'The Quidditch Corner', arms crossed, purposefully jostling Ron as she passed. The door slammed shut behind her, the bell jangling loudly. Other customers were staring. 

"Well he bloody well would," Ron muttered at Harry's accusing look. "They're just sickening, don't tell me you don't think so."

"She gets a bit over the top," Harry conceded. "But Ron, you've been baiting her all day."

"Well she shouldn't even be seeing him, I don't know what her parents are thinking," Ron answered, stomping towards the door. Harry followed him with an incredulous look.

"You don't know what her parents are thinking?" Harry mimed as they stepped out onto the snow-covered street. 

"It's what me Mum says," Ron mumbled. "You don't see her, do you?"

"Looks like she took off," Harry said, squinting through the snow and peering down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of Hermione's distinctive cloud of hair through the milling masses of Hogwarts' students. 

"Oh, well that's just wonderful," Ron scowled. "We spend all morning helping her look for a bloody Christmas gift for Viktor bloody Krum, and then for thanks, she ditches us!"

Harry stared at his best friend in disbelief. _He's off his rocker. Completely out of his gourd. _

"Can you believe her?" Ron ranted on indignantly. 

"We should try to find her," Harry suggested tactfully. _I can't believe either one of you. _

"What for?" Ron asked. "So we can waste the whole rest of the day shopping for Krum, too? Let's find Fred and George - bet they're having a lot more fun than we've been." 

Harry didn't comment; last he'd seen, Fred had been stalking out of a jeweler's shop followed by George, who was reciting florid love poems in an exaggerated voice. Apparently Fred had bought something for Angelina, though Harry hadn't seen what. Ron hadn't noticed, probably because he'd been busy suggesting a set of combs as the perfect gift.

"Well come on!" Ron urged impatiently. "Half the day's gone already!" 

Harry was about to suggest that they really should find Hermione when a dark shape came flying between them. 

***

"There you go, dear," Madam Rosmerta said kindly; Hermione smiled in thanks, and took the offered mug of butterbeer. The froth was warm against her lips and burned pleasantly down into her stomach; for a moment it made her feel slightly less lonely and miserable. 

It was a brief moment. She put the mug down with a sigh, folding her arms on the table and settled her chin on her wrists. _I need girl friends. Girls would understand about needing to find just the right thing._

Of course, most girls are so silly and insipid most of the time it's hardly worth it just to have someone to shop with at the holidays. I couldn't stand to listen to Lavender and Parvati swoon over every word that wretched Trelawney woman says all the time. It's pathetic. 

Though I'm reasonably sure they wouldn't suggest I send Viktor a set of combs. Combs! Really!

And it's not that Ron doesn't know better, it's just that he's gotten it into his head that he's got to save me from Viktor's nefarious advances, or some such Neanderthal rubbish, as if that's the only reason a boy could possibly be interested in me. And besides, he's not my father and I really don't see how it's any business of – 

Hermione's internal ranting cut off sharply as the window next to her suddenly burst inward, showering her with glass. She yelped and ducked under the table, one hand grabbing for her wand and the other shielding her eyes. Somewhere across the room she heard Madam Rosmerta scream quite loudly and shrilly.

A black shape glided across the room, alighting on a wall sconce. It was a very large raven, with a rolled parchment tied with green rope clutched in its beak. As Hermione watched from beneath the table, another raven flew in through the shattered window, winging swiftly towards a table of fourth years. It dropped its scroll, also tied with green rope, in front of a dumbstruck Colin Creevey. 

No one in the small pub was making any noise; Colin's raven took off with a caw that made a third-year girl across the room jump and shriek. Another large dark bird flew in when it had gone, dropping an identical scroll in front of Justin Finch-Fletchley. The first raven was still perched on the wall, shrewd eyes darting about. Hermione frowned as Justin picked up his scroll with two fingers and held it in front of his face, examining it cautiously. _Colin and Justin . . different houses, different years, I can't think what they have in common . . _

A fourth raven swooped into the room and dropped a rolled parchment in front of the now-crying third year girl, who Hermione belatedly recognized as Penelope Clearwater's sister Cassandra.

__

Three houses now . . but not Slytherin .. 

It suddenly clicked in Hermione's brain what Colin, Justin and Cassy had in common. _Oh *no* . . _

She must have tensed, because a shard of glass fell from her hair and shattered noisily. The first raven's eyes snapped to her, and it launched itself with a great whoosh of air. Its wingspan had to be as wide as the table, and its beak, clenched around the rolled parchment, looked like it could easily snap off a finger. _And it's coming right at me!_

Hermione threw herself to the floor, covering her head with her hands as the raven swooped low over her. The backdraft from the beating of its wings ruffled her hair as it dropped the scroll on the floor beside her. She lifted her head in time to see it continuing smoothly back out the window. 

"What was *that* about?" Colin exclaimed; Hermione turned and saw him tugging the rope around his scroll loose. 

"No!" she cried out. "Colin, don't –" but he was already unrolling the parchment, frowning in puzzlement. 

"Excito veneficus serpens," Colin read off loudly. "What's that mean?"

__

Oh no, oh no, oh no -

Cassandra Clearwater gave a full-fledged, terrified scream as the green rope around her parchment began writhing and twisting itself out of its loose knot. The sound was soon drowned out by the clatter of dozens of chairs being knocked backwards, scores of feet all rushing towards the doors. There was a pained yell that sounded like Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Madam Rosmerta had joined Cassy in screaming her lungs out, while running madly for the kitchen and slamming the heavy wooden door behind her. Hermione was forced back under the table to avoid being trampled. 

In all the commotion, she almost missed the faint hissing sound coming from just beside her. 

***

__

It was dark, and there was screaming all around her. The ground shook, and Willow stumbled, throwing her hands out to catch herself. She saw they were glowing, blood red sparks dancing between the fingertips. Power was coursing along her veins, and she could hear her own ecstatic breathing over the cacophony of shrieks, the obscene rasping seeming to echo everywhere, overwhelming everything.

"Dawnie?" Willow called out into the darkness, fingers clawing at the hard asphalt ground. "Dawnie, I'm sorry!" It echoed away into the black, sorry, sorry, sorry . . 

"Everyone's sorry," snarled a voice just over her shoulder, and she was jerked to her feet, whipped around to stare into accusing eyes. Buffy snarled at her, her face distorting into vampiric features. The screams around them grew louder, more frantic.

. . big day, big day . . bitch! I'm supposed to work on the factors!

"I didn't mean to!" Willow cried, staring in shocked revulsion at her friend's demonic face. She reached for Buffy's hand pleadingly, but the minute her fingers touched the vampiric slayer's skin, the red sparks burst into flames. She scrambled backwards in horror as Buffy just stood there, the flames rapidly engulfing her entire body. 

"Did you pat its head?" Buffy asked tonelessly, before disintegrating into ash and faintly glowing embers. Willow turned and ran headlong into the dark; the screams and the lustful, breathless gasping followed. 

She crashed into something, falling backwards. A face loomed out of the dark; Dawn.

"Dawnie, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry Dawnie, I –"

"Hello, Strawberry," Dawn sneered lasciviously, her face slipping, like her sister's, into vampiric form. Her eyes glowed red. "I just want a little taste." Dawn lunged. Willow joined the screaming.

She was still screaming when she sat bolt upright in bed, blankets kicked off onto the floor, back pressed against the headboard, trying to crawl right into the wall. She blinked in harsh winter sunlight, screwed her eyes tight shut and tried to calm her breathing.

__

Dream. Just a dream. 

Memories trickled back; getting off the Knight Bus in the bitter cold of predawn, walking down an empty street lined with shops that sold things like flying broomsticks and cauldrons, knocking on the door of the Three Broomsticks and telling the disgruntled, pajama-clad innkeeper that Stan sent her.

__

I'm in Hogsmeade, which is far away from Sunnydale and broken arms and blood rituals to raise the dead and I can't hurt them anymore now and it was just a dream and –

And someone was still screaming.


	3. Veneficus Serpens

Title: Veneficus Serpens 

Author: Sonya

Rating: R, for naughty language and bad things happening to cute little children. 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue – all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats. 

Spoilers: Up to "Wrecked" in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Riot, mayhem, Willow with glowy eyes. 

Author's Note: I've borrowed a term from Robert Jordan's "Wheel of Time" here – namely "wilder". It means the same here as there (for those who don't read WoT, a wilder is a self-taught channeler of the One Power – or here, a self-taught witch.) There will be no other references to WoT and this is in no way turning into a three-way crossover, I just borrowed the term 'cause it fit. But anyway, it's Robert Jordan's, not mine.

***

Willow stumbled down the stairs into the common room of the Three Broomsticks. Overturned chairs and tables and shattered dishes littered the scrap of floor she could see from the stairway. Most of the screaming seemed to be coming from outside, though she thought she heard a faint whimpering that sounded closer, and something that sounded almost like .. _hammering? _

God, my heard hurts. I wonder if the wizarding world has heard of Advil. 

She nearly slipped on a puddle of something that smelled sweet and alcoholic as she stepped into the room, grabbing a luckily still-upright table for support. 

__

And, the sense of balance is not really on line yet either. 

This had better not be an apocalypse. I am *so* not up to apocalypse speed now. 

There was a blonde boy standing near the back of the room, looking down at something on the floor. The hammering had stopped. 

"What happened?" Willow called out to the boy. His head whipped around as if she'd slapped him, huge eyes like a stunned deer meeting hers. 

__

Did you pat its head?

Not now, something not of the good is going down here and I gotta stay with the present tense . . oh *god* my head hurts . . 

"I didn't mean to!" the boy blurted in a terrified voice, backing away from whatever had so fascinated him on the floor. Willow picked her way carefully across the wrecked room towards him. He had a rather androgynous face that looked like it might turn handsome in a few years; she guessed he was about 14, though he sounded younger. "I didn't know what it meant, I swear I didn't! I didn't mean it!"

__

Okay, not liking the sound of that.

Didn't happen to say "I wish," didja?

"What didn't you – oh my God!" Willow blurted. It was a girl. He'd been staring at a girl, small, pale, and seizuring there on the floor. Her entire body was twitching, her hair making a faint rustling on the floorboards, the ends of it soaking up some of the spilled alcohol. Her eyes were open wide and staring sightlessly. Willow skidded to her knees beside the girl, grabbing for her wrist. She was too cold, and her pulse was thin, barely there. Her breathing was just shallow, rapid pants. 

"I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't mean to, I like her, she's friends with my brother, and I don't know where my brother is and I think they sent them after mudbloods and oh god, my father'd kill me if he knew I used that word, but it's what happened and I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't and it should have bitten me, it's all my fault, I didn't mean –" 

Willow whipped around, slapping a hand over the boy's mouth. Tears trickled from his eyes onto her fingers.

"What bit her?" she asked as calmly as possible. The boy hiccupped, and stared. Willow sighed, and took her hand away from his mouth. He drew in a shaky breath. _Was I *ever* like this? I think I did better than this, with my first vampire and all. I really think I did._ "Look, I know you're freaking, and I get that, trust me. But if you want me to help her, I need to know what happened. In logical order. Without all the didn't-mean-to-ing. What bit her?" 

"This," said a voice to her left. Another girl was standing there, looking a little older and far calmer than the boy, with dark eyes and a riot of dark hair around her grim face. She held up a heavy mug, with the remains of a small green snake squashed to the bottom of it. "They're not natural, the others disintegrated after a few moments, but they evidently stay solid if they're dead." Her eyes shifted to the girl on the floor; and she bit her lip, but otherwise showed no reaction. _Okay, I'm not sure if I'm impressed or way creeped out. Hello to the jadedness. _

"This will help, won't it?" she asked, thrusting the mug and dead snake towards Willow. 

The din outside seemed to have moved away down the street, the screams still audible but distant. The seizuring girl's gasping was very loud in the still room. 

__

My head hurts. I really wish my head would stop hurting.

"I didn't mean to," the boy whispered. 

"Stop saying that, it's not your fault, Colin," the girl snapped. It lacked sincerity. 

"Okay," Willow said, taking a deep breath, looking back to the girl on the floor. She looked paler, and she was still vibrating like a guitar string. _But breathing. Breathing is good. Okay, poisoning. Magical poisoning. I can handle this. Come a long way since what happened to Angel. I can do this. _"Okay. It's – Colin?" The boy nodded. "Okay, Colin. This is very important. I need you to go get help. Someone like – police? Do you have police?"

"Aurors," the girl supplied. "And I'm Hermione."

"I can do that!" Colin nodded readily. 

"Good, go," Willow ordered, and turned to the girl as Colin ran off out the door. "Pleased to meet you, Hermione. Now let's see that squashed snake." 

***

"Hogwarts students!" Severus Snape bellowed, trying to maintain his footing amidst the panicked rush of witches and wizards all trying to get off the street. He could barely hear his own voice above the commotion. Doors were slamming and being charmed shut; glass shattered somewhere behind him. _Useless and pathetic, the lot of them, stampeding like cattle! _

"Hogwarts st –urgh!" his shout cut off abruptly as a portly witch pushing a baby carriage in front of her like a battering ram crashed into his knees. He stumbled out of her way, his teeth snapping shut on his tongue in the process. _Bloody stupid cow! _

He had his wand out and pointed towards his throat, prepared to enhance his voice above the level of the general din, when a wizard somewhere to his left thundered out, "Tilly! Where are you!?" at god-like decibels. "Matilda!" 

The idea was catching. Within seconds the already ear-splitting cacophony had turned literally deafening as tens of dozens of magically-enhanced voices screamed out the names of misplaced children and spouses. Severus grimaced, and tucked his wand back away. 

The sky immediately above the crowd was rapidly turning into a haze of bright sparks, as people began to realize that shouting en mass wasn't working and decided that sending up flares, also en mass, might be a better tact. _Idiots. Worthless, useless idiots. _

A black-clad form went flying past him, in the opposite direction from the fleeing crowd – he reached out and grabbed its shoulder, spinning the student around. He expected, perhaps, a yelp or a scream or an attempt to struggle. What he got was a wand pointed determinedly in his face, by none other than Harry Potter.

"Expelli-oh," Potter cut off, lowering his wand. Ron Weasley came crashing and stumbling through the crowd and skidded to a stop next to Potter. _Oh, what bloody *wonderful* luck. _

***

Hermione bit her lip and handed the stranger the mug-with-crushed-snake, her eyes darting between the red-headed woman and Cassy's convulsively shivering form. The red-head's hand was shaking, and Hermione noted that her eyes were rimmed with dark, puffy circles. 

__

Like she's been crying. And she's wearing muggle clothes. 

Oh Lord, I hope I'm doing the right thing here. But she's the only adult about and I've never felt less like a grown-up in my life . . I wish Ron or Harry were here, they never worry about doing the proper thing at times like this, they just charge in as if it's never occurred to them that they could possibly be wrong or that Cassy could die if this isn't the right thing to do . . 

"I know a spell that can determine the appropriate counter-curse if applied to the victim of a curse, but it's long and complicated and I don't have the ingredients," Hermione offered, feeling useless. "But perhaps we could make substitutions -"

"No time," the other girl shook her head, brow creased as she peered closely at the remains of the snake. "I recognize this."

"The curse?"

"The snake," she corrected, placing the mug carefully on the table. "She's got five minutes, maybe ten if she's having a real lucky day. And, also, if the poison isn't magically augmented, which I'm thinking it probably is."

"The snake?" Hermione repeated, frowning in confusion. "But –"

"Help me get her on a table," the woman ordered, already lifting Cassy's shoulders. Hermione hastily grabbed the girl's feet, and felt vicariously embarrassed when her skirt shifted up around her thighs. _Oh, don't be an idiot, Hermione. She doesn't care about showing a little leg right now! _

Lord she's cold, and her skin feels like it's trying to crawl off her body. I can feel her muscles twitching, under her skin. Oh, I'm going to have nightmares for the next dozen years about this. 

I wouldn't want to die with my skirt all bunched up and showing my underwear.

She won't die! She *won't*.

This .. whoever this is .. she knows what she's doing. She recognized –

"What do you mean you recognized the snake?" Hermione asked, taking her hands away from Cassy's flesh as quickly as she could once the girl was safely on the center of the table. Cassy's shoes began pounding a rapid drum-beat on the wood; being moved seemed to have disturbed her, and her convulsions were growing more violent. _Or else the poison is just progressing. Killing her. That tapping is going to drive me mad._ Hermione grabbed onto the soles of the shoes, stilling Cassy's feet. _Better. A little better. Not skin. _"It's a curse. The snake doesn't exist. I mean, not really."

"Well, it existed long enough to bite her," the woman retorted, biting her lip. _Don't do that, _Hermione thought,_ I do that when I'm nervous about something and you can't be nervous. You need to know what you're doing or Cassy's going to die. _"I don't know how it works but I think it must be some sort of transference spell. The snakes were real – as evidenced by the dead and oh so squashed one. They must have been magicked in here and then magicked out again, hence the disappearing."

"So – it's not a magical poison?" Hermione asked worriedly. "It's not a curse? It's just –"

"Real live, very deadly snake venom," the redhead finished for her. "_Dendraspis angusticeps_, to be exact, commonly known as the Green Mamba, which is kinda amusing 'cause it sounds like mambo, and you know, funny dance, deadly snake - it's hysterical in all situations that aren't this one. My guess is whatever nasty did this, it wanted you wasting your time on counter-curses and magical fixes, all the while she'd be dying of purely natural causes."

"So what can we do?" Hermione tried not to wail. It almost worked. "I don't know anything about magical healing of *mundane* injuries, I'm taking that next term! We need to get her to help, a real mediwitch or – or maybe Colin will come back with help –"

"No time," the woman snapped, still worrying her lower lip between her teeth and looking quite pale and haggard. Her brow was furrowed in intense concentration. "The poison needs to come out of her. Now."

Suddenly the screams outside, which had been growing fainter, reached a pitch and a volume that made the mug, still lying on the table with the dead _dendraspis angusticeps _mashed to the bottom of it, shake its way off the table to clatter to the floor. 

***

Dozens of magically augmented voices all screaming simultaneously was not something Harry ever wanted to hear again. Nor was being shoved hard into Snape's chest by the suddenly beyond-hysterical mob an experience he was looking to repeat any time soon. _Or any time distant. Or any time *ever*. Eugh! _

Harry picked himself hastily up off the ground, brushing non-existent dirt from his robes with great enthusiasm and grimacing. Having learned from hard experience he instantly checked to see that his wand was intact, and still tucked into his pocket where he'd put it moments before. Then he noticed that Snape had not moved; he was still sprawled inelegantly on the ground staring up into the sky. His face bore an expression Harry didn't think he'd ever seen on anyone before, much less on Snape. It was an odd and disconcerting blend of fury and defeat, anguish and resignation. Harry followed his gaze upward. 

The Dark Mark leered down on them, made indistinct and surreal by the haze of falling snow. 

Several things occurred to Harry in rapid succession. Snape would not have, being Snape, attended the Quidditch World Cup. Therefore, he would not have seen the Dark Mark in the sky that night. 

__

Therefore, this is the first time he's seen it in 14 years. 

He's been a spy for Dumbledore for longer than that. I believe that now. Seeing how he is now, I believe that. 

He must feel like everything he's done was a waste. 

For a moment, Harry Potter actually felt sorry for Severus Snape. 

It was a brief moment; in the next instant there was a sharp tugging at his sleeve and a frantic female voice screaming, "Harry, Harry! Dennis needs help!" 

Ginny Weasley had Dennis Creevey draped awkwardly half across her thin shoulders, and her face was nearly purple with a combination of exertion and tears. Dennis was twitching and flailing as if caught in the Crutiatus, his eyes wide and unfocused. 

"Ginny!" Ron exclaimed in fervent relief, rushing towards his sister, and stopping short when he saw Dennis. "Bloody fucking hell!" 

"Ten points from Griffindor for use of foul language!" Snape barked out, wrenching Dennis out of Ginny's grasp and swinging the slight boy up over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. _Guess he got over his shock, the bloody wanking git. _

"You've got to be bloody kidding me! Ron exploded. "How can you –"

"Shut UP, Weasley!" Snape roared. Ginny started sobbing hysterically. Snape pulled out his wand, his movements made awkward by the seizuring boy occupying his other arm, and pointed it at a mangled cauldron that had been part of a storefront display before it encountered the panicked mob. He shouted a spell Harry didn't recognize, and the cauldron transformed into a – _broom?_

Snape grabbed the broom and thrust it at Harry. 

"Get Dumbledore! NOW!" he ordered. "Weasley, other Weasley – oh, STOP THAT, girl, it makes your face even blotchier!"

Harry blinked. 

__

Snape just told me to get Dumbledore.

Snape just trusted me with an important task. 

"IS YOUR HEARING DEFICIENT, POTTER? I SAID NOW!"

Harry mounted the broom and took off for Hogwarts. 

***

The door to the Three Broomsticks had been kicked out and lay discarded in the vacant street, the mob having fled to the outskirts of town by the time Severus Snape reached the inn. There was a broken chair laying next to the door; to all appearances the place was empty. _Maybe this will teach Dumbledore to trust the students to keep their heads in an emergency. 'We mustn't deprive them of their Hogsmeade weekends, Severus, it would be unfair. Life must go on, Severus. If there is any trouble, children, just assemble at the Three Broomsticks and wait for a professor to arrive.'_

Ha bloody ha. 

And if the disturbance encompasses the Three Broomsticks, children, please scatter to the four winds like startled pidgeons. And did I mention, Severus, that I'll be back in my study pouring deep thoughts into my pensive while the children are seizuring and drooling all over *you*, Severus?

And where in the bloody fucking hell, to quote Mr. Weasley, are the Aurors? They shot up the Dark Mark, for Merlin's sake! Where is the Ministry?

Snape stepped in a soup tureen and nearly tripped, swearing loudly and trying desperately to balance himself without dropping the twitching child flung over his shoulder. Someone gasped at his outburst. 

The common room wasn't as empty as he'd thought; at a table near the back corner he saw Granger, in her shirtsleeves, tucking her robes around an unconscious blonde girl he didn't recognize. Granger's sweater was pillowed under the girl's head, and a red-headed woman in muggle clothing was pulling the girl's eyelids back and peering closely at her eyeballs. 

"Professor Snape! Oh, Dennis!" Granger exclaimed. He couldn't quite tell which exclamation sounded more distraught. The muggle-looking girl glanced up, saw the boy Snape was holding, and strode purposefully across the room towards them. Granger followed her.

"Someone should go fetch Colin back," Granger said, looking like she might cry. "He was so worried about his brother, he'll feel just –"

"Put him on the table," the red-head with the dark eyes and the very pale lips ordered, cutting Granger's rambling off and nervously wiping her hands on the sides of her muggle jeans. 

__

Excuse me? 

"And who the bloody hell are you?" Severus demanded. Granger cringed, biting her lip. The older girl's head snapped up indignantly, meeting his gaze. 

"The one in charge!" the witch snapped back; it was suddenly very obvious she was a witch. Her eyes were glowing with an unearthly fire and her voice had echoed in a way that normal human voices don't. Her hair was moving just slightly about her face; to the casual observer, it might have appeared to stir in a slight wind. Severus knew better; it was energy. Little shocks of power making the strands jump like electricity along copper wires. He gaped. 

__

Of all the arrogant, presumptuous, interfering . .! I will not be spoken to that way! screamed the greater part of his brain. 

But a small sliver of something within him was just awed. _Magnificent. Merlin, she's just .. magnificent. _

Or perhaps not such a small sliver, he realized an unsettling moment later. The boy was laying on the table; he didn't properly remember putting him there. 

"He looks the same," Granger commented, bending worriedly over the small shivering form, pressing the back of her hand to the boy's forehead. "He's cold."

"Is the same," the other witch said, her voice distant, her fingertips skimming lightly over the child's form, then settling palm down over his heart. Her eyes were no longer glowing, and her thin, pale lips were pursed in obvious effort. 

__

Hands. No wand, Severus observed, his unease growing. _Wandless wizards are almost always wilders. Almost always dark. _

Not that he had much use for cavorting about with a wand, looking like a damned conductor at a muggle orchestra. _And not that my distaste for wandwork is any evidence if favor of wandless wizards. And what the bloody hell is she doing? _Whatever it was, it was making the boy's body twitch and his veins bulge. Her hand was held tense and claw-like with such force that her own veins were pulsing visibly beneath her near-translucent skin. It looked as though she was trying to crush something invisible, or perhaps grasp something that did not want to be held.

She was muttering under her breath, things that sounded rather like threats and curses. "Don't think so, bitch!" she hissed almost inaudibly. Her eyes were clenched shut, and her breathing was growing rapidly louder and more strained. 

__

Poison, Severus realized abruptly. _It's not a curse, it's poison, some kind of neurotoxin, and she's gathering it, pulling it out of his blood. _

They used real snakes. 

How did she know?

And how long would Poppy or any other mediwitch have spent trying to counter a curse that didn't exist, while the mundane poison did its work?

Clever. His mouth twisted in a sour grimace. _Very clever. _

The boy's body suddenly arched, his breath hitching in a way that was painful to hear. He started shuddering so violently Severus found himself taking an instinctive step forward, ready to catch the body if the boy thrashed his way off the table. _Or perhaps not so entirely mundane a poison. It's fighting her._

Probably charmed to do just that, some nasty little catch that ups the potency if anyone tries to interfere. 

Wheels within wheels. Just the bastard's style. 

But so very clever. 

The boy's going to die. Him and how many more? 

"No!" the witch snapped out, reaching out with her other hand to pin him down onto the table. He lay there, limp, his chest still. "Little more, come on, hang in there kid, just a little more," she grated out between clenched teeth. 

"It's alright," Granger whispered, in what he supposed she thought was a reassuring tone. It sounded distinctly terrified to him. _But then, you've got an ear for that, don't you? _"It's alright, it was like this with Cassy too."

__

Did I look like I needed reassuring? Bloody hell, am I that transparent?

"I have seen the procedure before, Miss Granger," Snape said acidly, trying to cover his discomfiture. _Of course, at the time, it was Anton LeStrange extracting all the water from a muggle's blood, and it ended in agonized death. Followed closely by consumption of much firewhiskey, and me banging the hell out of Narcissa Malfoy. Of course, she wasn't Malfoy yet, then. _"Is there perhaps something useful you could be doing?"

"Well –" she began hesitantly. 

"Well?" he mimicked nastily, trying to squash the vivid memories of his past back into their usual dark corner. With the distant sounds of the panicked mob still echoing in off the street and the red-headed witch muttering like a madwoman over the now twitching and contorting body of the poisoned boy, it wasn't working very well. "What? Granger has nothing to say? Surely you've read all about handling situations like this." 

She was saved from answering by the red-haired witch's triumphant shout. Snape whipped back around, saw her holding a writhing globe of liquid about the size of a pea, just above her palm. She murmered something, and the venom burst into sickly yellow flame, burnt away, and was gone. The redhead sagged then, bracing herself on the table, looking like she could barely stand. 

The boy lay there peacefully, and though he was still pale and drawn, his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He frowned slightly in his sleep. 

"Gotta be an easier way to do that," the witch muttered fervently. 

__

Magnificent. 

"They'll both require a restorative potion, Granger!" Snape barked. "Fetch me anything of use from the kitchen." 

"Madam Rosmerta charmed it shut," the girl said hesitantly. "It's locked."

"So *un*lock it, Granger!" he shouted. "I know you're not above breaking and entering!" For a moment her eyes flared with indignation, and she seemed on the verge of protest, but then the redhaired witch shakily righted one of the overturned chairs and collapsed into it with a groan. Hermione cast a worried look in her direction, then a very pointed glare at Snape – _I am *not* doing this because you told me, I'm doing it for *her*! _that look snapped – and ran for the kitchen, wand out. Madam Rosmerta's locking charm lasted all of four seconds. 

__

That one could be very dangerous if she had any mind to be. 

"So," the redhead said conversationally. "Is this a typical Tuesday for you too?"

Severus blinked at her; she was sitting there with the boy's wrist in her hand, monitoring his pulse with her fingertips, quirking an eyebrow at him as if she found the whole situation darkly amusing. 

"It's Saturday," he answered.

And then a dozen Aurors burst through the door. 


	4. Start Something

Title: Start Something 

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue – all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats. 

Spoilers: Up to "Wrecked" in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: The Ministry sucks, and so do magical hangovers.

***

Hermione nudged the kitchen door open with her foot, her arms full of everything she could find that might possibly be useful in the creation of a restorative draught. She'd also grabbed a few things that she knew could be used in potions to aid in dreamless sleep, and a handful of various herbs that she thought she could use to fudge an energizing serum.

__

I don't know what I was thinking, putting Spells for Mundane Injuries and Maladies off until next term. I'm sure I could have fit it in somewhere, if I'd taken a moment to consider –

She nearly dropped the armload of supplies when she saw the commotion that had overrun the common room. There were Aurors everywhere. In one far corner a nervous thong of Hogwarts students had been gathered, and Professors Flitwick and Sprout were trying – with moderate success – to keep them calm. Some of the older students had been separated from the group and were being questioned by Aurors. A pair of girls that Hermione guessed to be third-years were clinging to one another and crying rather loudly; Professor Flitwick looked nearly ready to join them. Colin Creevey was arguing with Professor Sprout, gesturing frantically towards the center of the room.

Tables had been transfigured into cots, and there was a team of mediwitches and wizards hovering over Dennis and Cassy, and several more students. Seamus Finnegan was strapped down on a cot, thrashing against the restraints, as a distinctly panicked-looking mediwizard fluttered about him gesturing with a wand, muttering. Two Aurors stood just behind him, taking notes and frowning. Hermione saw a fat dark braid hanging off the end of another cot, twitching like the tail of a nervous horse. The figure was obscured by the throng of emergency medical personnel clustered around the cot, but that braid looked an awful lot like how Angelina liked to wear her hair. 

The red-haired woman – Hermione was startled to realize she still didn't know her name – was standing to one side with her arms crossed, giving an Auror a look that could have melted glass. He had his wand pointed belligerently in her face. 

" – idiocy!" Snape was yelling, his face flushed nearly purple with rage. He had the mug with the crushed snake on it, and was waving it threateningly in another equally infuriated-looking Auror's face. "When Dumbledore –"

"Albus Dumbledore needs to learn his place!" the Auror snapped back, spittle flying from his lips, his rather pudgy face blotching. His deep green uniform was decorated with various pins and medals and was topped off with a brimless, pointed green hat, with some sort of insignia on the front. "This is a Ministry matter! I have my orders from Cornelius Fudge himself!"

"Cornelius Fudge is a blind, doddering old fool!" Snape bellowed. The Auror sputtered disbelievingly; across the room, Professor Flitwick flinched. 

"Oh, sure, you're just following orders!" the redhead shouted, sending a nasty look over her captor's shoulder. "Is that what you're gonna tell all these kids' parents? Sorry your kid's all dead and stuff, but I had my orders from somebody all big and important!" The Auror guarding her shifted to block her view, jabbing his wand threateningly within inches of her eyes. "Bite me," the witch snapped at him.

"You would do well to remain silent, Madam!" the Auror in the green hat retorted indignantly. "Performing advanced healing spells without use of a wand is a violation of –"

"I'm gonna shove a wand up your ass!"

"_I WANT TO SEE MY BROTHER!" _Colin yelled so loudly and shrilly that everyone paused for a moment. 

"Oh dear," Professor Flitwick moaned into the sudden silence. "Oh dear, oh dear . ."

One of the Aurors who had been questioning students hastily moved to assist Professor Sprout in restraining Colin. He cast some sort of calming charm on the hysterical boy, which frightened the third-year pair back into sobbing. 

"If you won't allow her to perform the proper procedure," Snape addressed the Auror in the green cap, speaking with forced, deadly calm, "at least instruct your medics to do so. I'm telling you, these students have been bitten by a deadly poisonous snake. They are not cursed."

"That's not been determined as of yet!" the Auror answered him in a very self-important tone. "There are proper procedures to be followed here, tests to be performed, to assure we don't cause more damage when –"

"Proper procedures?!?" Snape exploded again. "You self-important little –"

"Don't you take that tone with –"

"Quiet, both of you!" one of the mediwitches snapped, an older woman with white hair pulled back into a stark bun. She turned to the redhead. "Tell me what you did," she ordered in a clipped, no-nonsense voice. "And get that thing out of her face, for Merlin's sake!" She brushed the Auror's wand away with an exasperated wave of her hand. 

The redhead gave him a triumphant smirk. 

"I don't think –" the green-capped Auror began in a prim tone. 

"No, you obviously don't!" the mediwitch rounded on him, eyes flashing. The Auror flushed purple; Snape gave a nasty snicker. "Those children –" she waved a hand at Dennis and Cassy – "are recovering nicely. *These* children" – she waved in the direction of the others bitten students, and the bevy of mediwizards and witches all poised awaiting further instructions – "are not responding to a single counter-curse! Now what does that tell you?"

"This woman is in the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!" the Auror responded, ignoring the mediwitch's question. "You have no authority to –"

"No authority?" the mediwitch snapped back, stalking up to him, her wand waving in his face. The Auror leaned back so far that his green cap fell off his round head. "No authority?!? You can tell Cornelius Fudge himself – you can tell Merlin himself! – that it will be a very cold day in hell before *he* has the *authority* to tell me to watch children die!"

The Auror sputtered. 

"Oh dear, oh dear," Flitwick wrung his hands. 

The mediwitch gave a satisfied nod. "You!" she barked out, pointing her wand at the red-head. "Show me this spell you did!" The younger witch hurried to the nearest student's cot; the Auror who had been guarding her gave his superior – who was making a great show of dusting off his green velvet hat – an apologetic shrug, but didn't try to stop her. 

***

"Hello?" Ginny Weasley called, none too loudly, down a shadowed alleyway. She thought she'd heard something. Hogsmeade was ghostly quiet now, the panicked mob having long since fled, the shops all closed, many of them sporting shattered front windows and kicked-in doors as testament to the trauma they'd witnessed less than an hour before. 

Ginny suspected there were students hiding in many of the unguarded shops, but she wasn't going in to find out. 

__

Snape can go ahead and give me detention, and take half a bazillion points from Gryffindor, I don't care. At least I'll be alive for it.

Alleys are just about it. I draw the line there, and that's .. well, that's just about it. And if he doesn't like that he can just . . just stuff it! 

Stuff it? Oh, real scary, Gin. You'd think with as many brothers as you have, you'd have learned how to curse.

"Hello? Anyone there?" Ginny called out again, taking a single tentative step into the alley, the snow crunching under her feet. She heard it again. Rustling, and a sound like someone retching. She swallowed hard. It was not the most comforting of noises. 

"It's okay to come out now," she tried again. "Everybody's done rioting." 

__

And doesn't that sound odd? Like saying supper's over. Everybody's had their fill of rioting, was very good, have to get the recipe – will you please pass the cowering?

I'd really like to be cowering right now, rather than ducking down alleyways. Stupid greasy git. I should have said no and just let him give me detention. With any luck somebody trampled him and it doesn't matter anymore anyway.

The retching sound stopped; the alley was now very quiet. Ginny swallowed and took two steps forward, eyeing the crates that lined the outside walls of the two shops that created the narrow space. _Anything could be hiding in there. _

"Look, if you're a Hogwarts student, you're supposed to go to the Three Broomsticks," she announced. There was no answer. Her fingers were nervously toying with the end of her wand, tucked into her skirt. "Professor Snape sent me and my brother to fetch everyone." _And wasn't it just a brilliant idea to split up. _"He said he's going to give detention to everyone who's not there in a half-hour." _And take ten points from Gryffindor for each student we don't find. _"So if you're a student you'd really better get moving." 

__

It's probably not a student. Probably just someone here doing their holiday shopping.

Or not even someone. It's probably stray cat. Or a rat even. 

A very large rat. Do rats retch? I never saw Scabbers throw up.

But then, Scabbers wasn't really a rat, was he? Of course, I'm not supposed to know that. Nobody tells little Ginny anything. 

She pulled her wand out of her skirt, fidgeting with it uncertainly. _It could be a little kid. _

I can't just leave it here if it's some poor little kid who got separated from her parents. A little kid could freeze to death out here. Or starve. Or plenty of other awful things. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," she announced, holding her wand at the ready. "So don't do anything silly, okay? But I'm gonna come looking for you now. Unless you want to come out."

No answer.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. _Merlin, why didn't I think of that? What if they can't talk, because they're too busy twitching and foaming at the mouth like Dennis?_

I hope he's okay. I wish I knew he was okay, him and everyone else. And that nothing *else* bad is going to happen. That would be a nice thing to know. 

"Okay then," she said, taking a deep breath. "Okay, I'm coming."

"Don't," croaked out a male voice. She jumped, sucking in a startled breath, hand clenching so tightly around her wand she half expected it to crack.

A _familiar _male voice, though she couldn't quite place it. 

"W-who's there?" she demanded. 

"Go away!" the voice called back, sounding a little more sure of itself. 

"Not until you show me you're not hurt!" Ginny insisted. _And what am I going to do if he won't, hrmm?_

He doesn't sound like a little kid. Doesn't sound quite like an adult, either, but not a little kid. 

Surely old enough to take care of himself. Doesn't need me hanging about in creepy alleys fussing over him. 

I really could go now. 

"I said go away, Weasel!" the voice yelled back. Ginny gasped. 

"Malfoy?" she exclaimed.

***

__

My head is going to explode. Seriously. I literally think it might.

It feels like my brain is melting. 

I am so incredibly, unbelievably stupid . . gotta hold it together . . 

Willow bent over a pretty, dark-skinned girl of about 18 and tried hard to ignore the way the girl and the cot and everything else was starting to look like it was outlined in sizzling prismatic colors. Or the hints of gray static that kept creeping into the edge of her vision. Or the way she could literally feel every nerve in her body, every scrap of magical energy she was drawing along them, because they all burned. 

She reached out, concentrating, feeling with incorporeal senses for the poison burning in the girl's veins, tiny molecules in so very much blood, so much, _so very much and it's so tiny and bright and sparkly and burning, burning, my eyes are burning out of my head – _

NO! Stop it! Gotta hold it together! 

She gathered the poison, in the girl's heart as her blood circulated it through, her hand clenching rhythmically along with the magical effort of keeping that heart beating. It didn't want to. She'd lain there too long as Willow dealt with others first, too much of her was already shutting down, nerves all short-circuiting. The poison was well-ensconced in her system, hiding in tiny capillaries, fighting its extraction almost lazily, _like it doesn't think I can take it, huh, well I'll show it, I'll show the bitch, over-confident much, huh? You wanna start with me? You starting with me? Bring it on, bitch! _

I'll burn you, burn you out, burn you down, I'm burning, burning, oh God my blood is on fire it's boiling it's – 

FOCUS! Poison. Gather the poison. Keep the heart beating. 

My heart is going to beat out of my chest I can feel my ribs breaking –

NO! FOCUS ON THE GIRL! 

Oh God I am the stupidest person alive I don't know what I did to myself what Rack did to me but this girl is gonna die because I am the stupidest, most pathetic waste of a junky that ever walked the earth and oh God it hurts SO fucking bad!

Just a little more, little more, come on BITCH let it go, you aren't gonna win, you ARE NOT GONNA FUCKING WIN, she is not gonna die you bitch, I've got you – I've got – 

"EEARgh!" Willow shrieked, feeling like tiny explosions were detonating behind her eyes, little fires burning in her brain, everything scorching with white-hot pain – but she had the poison. Another mediwitch rushed in to take over the job of keeping the girl's heart beating, murmuring complicated little incantations that were echoing nonsensically around in Willow's head. 

__

Everything's so loud. Buzzing, like little insects. Like hundreds of little buzzing insects all crawling around on the inside of my head. I wonder why they don't all burn up. 

Shiny. So little, and shiny. She stared dazedly at the writhing globe of poison. 

"Incendio," someone murmured from her side. The little globe of poison sparked, burned, vanished to ash within half a moment. She turned to glare into black eyes. 

"Hey! I was –"

"Drink this," the dark-eyed, dark-haired man ordered, ignoring her protest and shoving a steaming cup of something foul-smelling in her face. Willow wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. _Ugh, that's making my head hurt worse. _

"No time," she argued, shoving him aside. "More kids .. and . . not kids . . " The next cot over contained a middle-aged woman with black hair. "More to do .. can't stop yet . ."

"Yes, because it's such a wise idea to continue wielding powerful magics when you can't even manage coherent sentences," the man retorted scathingly, grabbing her arm and spinning her around, thrusting the cup of nasty-smelling stuff at her again. "Now drink this."

"Hey!" she yelped indignantly, pulling her arm out of his grasp. She stumbled, and had to grab a cot to keep from falling. The group of medics tending the cot's occupant gave her wary, uncertain looks. "I'm fine!" she snapped at them. _My head's gonna fall off my neck. Just shatter and fall right off. _"I'm fine! And who made you the boss of me?!" she demanded of the dark-eyed man.

"You are behaving like a spoiled child," he snapped back. "You can barely stand."

"Doesn't matter," she insisted irritably, lurching awkwardly towards the next cot. _Oh yeah, standing is getting challenging. _"Gotta keep -" She stared down at the white sheet covering the cot, just beside the woman's slightly vibrating arm. There was a spot of blood. 

__

Where did that come from?

Another spot of blood joined it. Then another, more quickly. 

__

There's something hot running down my lips . . burns . . everything burns, make it stop, can't stop, can't stop gotta keep going, gotta fight it, gotta – 

"No, you do not," the man said firmly. "The medics can handle this now." She was grabbed by both shoulders this time, spun forcefully around. _Sounds all English like Giles when he's mad, but voice isn't like Giles, like . . all deep and dark . . so nice deep and dark everything's so bright and burning, burning, gonna burn me . . _

"Let go!" she demanded shrilly, the words coming out slightly blurred. She tasted blood. Nothing was making sense. Everything hurt, everything burned, _everything's burning, too much, too hot, Buffy it's too hot, it hurts, Mom don't, please, hurts so bad everything burning –_

"You wanna fry a witch?!?" she screeched, twisting hard against the hands that held her. "You wanna start with me? Huh? You wanna -" and then she felt herself falling forward, just before everything went searing white. 


	5. Screaming

Title: Screaming 

Author: Sonya

Rating: R, in a great big old not-for-the-kiddies, I'm-disturbed-I-wrote-this way. There are references here to torture, rape, and murder - in other words, Death Eaters having a party. You don't actually see any of the above, but there's graphic aftermath. Deals with Draco's presumably f***ed-up childhood (no, none of the aforementioned happens to Draco). So please, if you're underage or easily disturbed, don't read. It's not my goal to traumatize anyone.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Lucius Malfoy is the source of all evil - or, in other words, Draco has issues with his childhood and his future, Ginny has issues with anger management. There's also a bit of a vomit theme.

*** 

_He was creeping ever so silently down the stairs, lip caught between his teeth, deathly afraid the stupid fuzzy velvet slippers his mother had thought were just too adorable were going to make him trip on the plush carpet. And anyway, he was too old to be adorable. In another few years he'd be old enough to go to Hogwarts; sooner, his father had suggested vaguely, if he managed to 'pull some strings.'_

Draco didn't know what that meant, pulling strings, but he thought it was a very good thing to be able to do. When his father pulled strings, things tended to work out his father's way. 

It would be nice if he knew what strings to pull to get one of the house elves to bring him a glass of water; the regular old bell-pull wasn't working tonight. Someone was going to get a thrashing for that. Thrashing were what happened when pulling strings didn't work. 

Of course, if his father ever found out he'd set so much as one toe outside his room tonight, he was in for a thrashing himself. His father had Guests tonight. They were doing Grown-Up and Important Things that Draco wouldn't understand. Guests were very important, and not to be bothered by little boys wanting glasses of water. 

Biting his lip and taking the last step off the stairs into the wide hallway that led toward the kitchens, Draco thought that he was perfectly happy to leave Father's Guests to whatever Important Things they were doing. Important Things, from the sound of it, weren't very pleasant. 

There were screams echoing off the cavernous walls of the hallway, coming from one of the adjoining rooms; it sounded like one of the dining rooms. Painful sounding screams. And shrieks. And groans. 

Draco tip-toed as fast as he could.

The screams sounded closer in the kitchens, which were dark and empty, not a house-elf to be found. Draco's lip quivered; he didn't know where the glasses were kept. He bit down hard on his lip as someone in the adjoining dining room gave an agonized wail. He was far too old to cry. Crying was another thing that resulted in thrashings. He hoped his father gave the stupid house-elves the thrashing of their lives for going missing when he wanted something; of course, Father wouldn't know he needed to unless Draco told, and if Draco told he'd be in just as much trouble. 

It was very unfair, and he was thirsty, and all the screaming was making him feel like someone was playing a game of Quidditch in his innards. 

Then the door at the end of the kitchen burst in with a resounding bang and clatter as the latch gave way. Draco whipped around, freezing on the spot. The screams were very, very close now. There was a screaming girl running right at him. 

She wasn't wearing anything, except a large amount of blood. Her feet made wet splats on the floor as she scrambled and lurched forward; she stumbled, and looked up, her eyes latching onto his face. 

"Help me!" she shrieked. 

Draco stood frozen, as if petrified, wanting desperately to run, scream, anything to get away from this horrible creature scrabbling towards him, but his legs wouldn't move. He sucked in rapid breaths that were almost screams themselves. 

"Help me, please, help me, get me out of here, please!" the girl wailed, crawling towards him. In between the streaks of blood her hair looked like it had been blonde, like his.

"Can't get away, Muggle!" a deeper voice sing-songed from the door. A heavy-set man stumbled into the kitchen, grasping the doorway to support his wide frame. Mr. Goyle, Draco realized. Oh thank Merlin. He knew Mr. Goyle. Mr. Goyle was a friend of his father's, he'd save him - 

"Draco!" Mr. Goyle boomed out, sounding delighted, the words vaguely slurred. He lumbered into the kitchen, none too steadily, a bemused grin plastered across his wide face. "Draco, my boy!" 

Why was he smiling? Didn't he see the bloody girl? Didn't he hear the screaming?

"Please!" the girl wailed, as Mr. Goyle caught up to her and grabbed her by the hair. Draco felt like he couldn't breath. The girl was just shrieking wordlessly, twisting and clawing at the meaty hand that held her, carelessly, the way you might hold a hat or a shopping bag. 

"How've you been, boy?" Mr. Goyle asked jovially. 

Draco couldn't answer, couldn't speak, his eyes riveted on the girl. Mr. Goyle noticed this, glanced down at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. 

"Oh, you want a go?" Mr. Goyle offered. Draco hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. 

Then Mr. Goyle tossed the wailing girl right at him. She fell and skidded across the floor, stopping with a bit of her blood-soaked hair inches from Draco's velvet-slipper-clad feet. 

Draco found that he could move. He scrambled backward faster than he'd ever moved in his life, and suddenly there was air in his lungs for screaming. 

"Please!" the girl wailed, reaching for him with clutching hands. 

"What in the bloody hell is taking so long?" a familiar voice demanded from the doorway. Father. 

"Just letting Draco .. er .. well I thought . . " Goyle slurred, words tapering off at the murderous look on Father's face. Draco snapped his mouth shut as his father strode purposefully across the room, grabbed the girl by one arm and shoved her at Goyle. 

"Get out," Father snapped, and Goyle hastily complied, dragging the bloody girl with him. There was a cheer from the other room as they disappeared back through the doorway. Draco swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his ears as his father rounded on him.

There was blood splattered on Father's dress robes.

"I thought I told you to stay in bed tonight," Father said coldly. 

"She - she was -" Draco stammered. That wasn't what he'd meant to say. He needed an excuse, a very good one, for being here. No excuses were coming, though, just the image of the girl's blood-streaked face. Father's expression slipped from accusingly to plainly disgusted. 

"Stop whining," Father snapped. "Merlin, *how* old are you, boy?"

"S-seven," Draco stuttered out. "S-sir." Father shook his head in clear disappointment. 

"Your mother's fault for coddling you," he pronounced. "Go back to bed, Draco."

Father turned without another word, stalking back out towards the dining room. Draco watched the broken door slam awkwardly shut behind him, biting his lip until it hurt and scrunching his face up, trying so very hard not to cry. 

From the other room, the girl gave an ear-splitting howl. 

Draco was sick all over his velvet slippers. 

"Hello? Anyone there?" 

Draco snapped dizzyingly back to the present, sucking in a great gasp of frigid air. It tasted putrid. He blinked, and was disgusted to see he'd been sick all over the cobblestones. He backed away in hasty revulsion, not even caring that he was crawling around on his hands and knees. 

__

But the screaming stopped. No more screaming. 

"It's okay to come out now," a vaguely familiar, tremulous female voice announced, as if echoing his thoughts. "Everybody's done rioting." 

He kicked a bit of snow over the place where he'd vomited and curled himself in tighter behind the stack of boxes, hoping she'd just go away. 

__

If father ever, ever finds out I . . I sicked up all over myself like some coward . . just because there were people screaming.

But so loud. They were screaming so loud and it was my fault. 

Of course it was you fault, you worthless git. That's the *point*. You can make them scream, just by making a sign in the air. That's power. 

His stomach gave another uneasy lurch. 

"Look, if you're a Hogwarts student, you're supposed to go to the Three Broomsticks," the voice continued. "Professor Snape sent me and my brother to fetch everyone."

He almost laughed. Snape? Snape would probably clap him on the back and congratulate him, old mate of his father's that the bastard was. 

__

What would Snape do if he knew I was cowering back here, hiding next to my own vomit?

Fifty points from Slytherin for acting like a sniveling Hufflepuff. Like a stinking piece of mudblood trash. 

"He said he's going to give detention to everyone who's not there in a half-hour," the voice warned, "so if you're a student you'd really better get moving." There was that urge to giggle again. 

__

Detention? Merlin, detention? Are there people who still give a bloody fat damn about detention? I shot up the Dark Mark! Voldemort's returned! Gee, I wonder if I'd lose my house points for being a fucking Death Eater. 

Initiate. 

Though I suppose I passed. No one here to know what happened after. When the screaming started. 

But Merlin, if I do that every time there's screaming . . what if there's blood . . 

"I'm not going to hurt you," the voice announced, and something in the screwing-up-my-courage tone of it clicked in Draco's memory. _Weasel's little sister. Oh, bloody wonderful. _"So don't do anything silly, okay? But I'm gonna come looking for you now. Unless you want to come out."

He didn't answer her, of course.

"Are you hurt?" Ginny's voice asked, sounding an even mix of concerned and petrified. There was a pause. "Okay then; okay, I'm coming."

"Don't!" Draco snapped out, only it came out more a croak than a snap. His throat was painfully raw. 

"W-who's there?" Ginny retorted. 

"Go away!" Draco yelled, and it came out a little better this time. 

"Not until you show me you're not hurt!" 

__

Bloody interfering Gryffindors. 

"I said go away, Weasel!" he snapped without thinking. There was a momentary hush.

"Malfoy?" Ginny gasped. 

__

Oh, fuck. 

She stomped abruptly into view; there was something disheartening about how very unafraid she was, now she knew it was just him. 

__

Just me, the wanna-be Death Eater who pukes when people scream. Stupid wanking git. 

"What are you *doing* back there?" she demanded in a very prim way, hands fisted on hips. Her nose wrinkled up. "And what's that *smell*?"

He realized that in all the retching and having of flashbacks he'd dropped his wand; she was nearly stepping on it. When he didn't answer, her eyes narrowed. 

"What *are* you doing back here?" she repeated, but far more coldly. 

"None of your bloody business," he retorted, getting to his feet. His feet felt far less stable beneath him than he would have liked. He reached for his wand. 

She kicked it back out of his reach. 

__

Bloody little bitch! I didn't think she saw it!

"You had something to do with this, didn't you?" Ginny accused, and her pale, freckled little face was beginning to flush. "You and your . . your lousy git of a father, didn't you?" 

"What if I did?" he challenged, sneering. _Oh hell. Oh bloody hell. If she tells . . if Father finds out I got caught . ._

"What if you did?" she mimicked, her face nearly purple by now with righteous rage. "What if you did?"

"Yeah, that's what I said," Draco stepped in close to her, glaring nastily down his nose at her narrowed, angry eyes. "What are *you* going to do about it?" 

She brought her knee up, hard, right between his legs. 

He was sick, again, all over her. 

***

"Ugh!" Ginny screech. "Oh, eugh! Gross! You ass!" She ripped her outer robe off and threw it at Malfoy, who was currently writhing on the ground. "You're *revolting*! You're just too disgusting for words!" The robe missed him by several feet and landed on a nearby crate, before slipping to the ground with a rather nauseating plop. She tried again with her school robes; she hit his feet. 

He started giggling. 

She kicked him. 

He laughed harder. 

"What's so bloody funny?!" she demanded, rather shrilly. 

"Y-you -" he dissolved into giggles again, tucking his chin down into his scarf, still curled into a fetal position on the ground. She wrapped her now only sweater-clad arms around herself and shivered. 

__

He's lost his marbles. Gone completely out of his head. 

Well, you did just kick him in the balls, perhaps you caused brain damage.

Oh Merlin my mother would die if she knew I just thought that. 

Though Fred and George would be quite proud. 

"You k-kicked me!" Malfoy managed to stutter out amidst the rather creepy and disturbing laughter. "You h-had your w-w-wand out, and you k-KICKED me!"

"I'll do it again if you dare make some joke about muggle-lovers!" Ginny retorted. "And anyway, it worked, didn't it?"

"Oh y-yeah," he agreed with very un-Malfoy-ish good humor. "Fucking h-hurts like hell."

She stared. He giggled. 

"Have you *completely* lost your mind?" she exploded. 

"U-utterly," Draco affirmed. "Fifty points from Slytherin for being mad as a march hare!" He evidently found his own joke hysterical, because he collapsed in body-shaking guffaws. It was starting to make her skin crawl. 

__

Also it reeks back here. 

"You were sick before," Ginny suddenly observed out loud, noticing the patch of off-colored snow with a little lurch of her stomach. 

"Yeah? What of it?" Draco asked, finally pulling himself into a sitting position. He quirked an eyebrow up at her. 

"Why?" she demanded, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. 

__

Oh, don't be silly. This is *Malfoy*. Don't go attributing human feelings to the bastard. 

He shrugged. 

"You weren't bitten," she pondered aloud, glaring down at him and tapping a foot, "because you're not twitching and unconscious, and besides, you're a pureblood. So why were you sick *before* I kicked you?" 

"Remembered a picture I once saw of your mum," he retorted. Ginny ignored him. 

"Something scared you, didn't it?" she demanded. 

His sneer slipped a little. 

__

I was right! 

But .. Merlin, this is *Malfoy*! Why would he be scared by a Death Eater's prank? He probably had a hand in planning the whole damn show. 

"Was it something you did?" she blurted, before the thought had even fully formed in her mind. "That happens to me sometimes. Still sometimes." 

__

Virginia Weasley, what the bloody hell are you doing?

Confiding in *Malfoy*? 

Are you forgetting it was *his* father who's the reason you scare yourself and have nightmares and sometimes feel you're going to be sick because you thought something that you just know you never would have thought on your own? 

"Shouldn't have done that," Malfoy muttered. 

"What?"

"My father shouldn't have done that," he said, more loudly. "You're a pure-blood, even if you are a Weasel. He shouldn't have done that." He glared up at her challengingly, as if daring her to make something of it. To gloat, to make fun of his admission. She wasn't feeling remotely like doing anything of the sort. 

"But I suppose if it had been Hermione, you would have thought it was great fun," she snapped back. 

He shrugged again. 

"You know your precious You-Know-Who was a mudblood, don't you?" she pressed, emphasizing the insult. "I know all about it. Everything there is to know about every nasty little bit of his pathetic life."

"Suppose you would," he said neutrally. 

"So was it?"

"Was it what?"

"Something you did. That scared you."

"Why should I tell you, Weasel?"

"Why shouldn't I take your wand and tell Dumbledore how I found it?" Ginny retorted. 

"Oh, don't give it to Dumbledore," Malfoy suggested mockingly. "Give it to your father. Maybe it'd catch him a promotion."

She bent over and picked up his wand. He didn't move to stop her. "I could, you know," she insisted challengingly; he didn't respond. "Don't you care you're about to get thrown in Azkaban?" 

"Yes," he said quiet.

"So why're you just sitting there like a lump?" she snapped. 

"No," he corrected her, shaking is head. "I meant - yes, it was something I did, that scared me. Sort of," he confessed.

"Sort of?" 

__

I cannot believe I'm having this conversation with Malfoy.

I think the world has officially turned on its head. 

"It was the screaming," he said. "I don't . . don't do well with screaming." He didn't say anything else, just let her watch him appraisingly. 

"Promise me you didn't have anything to do with the snakes," she demanded. 

"I didn't."

She handed him his wand. 

__

Virginia Weasley, that has got to be the stupidest thing you have ever done in your life.

But .. it felt right. 

Malfoy glanced incredulously between her and the wand. "You know I could curse you into next week," he asked disbelievingly. 

"But you won't," she said with a confidence she didn't feel. 

__

This is MALFOY! Of course he will, you bleeding moron!

Feeling as if her heart was going to hammer its way right up into her mouth and out the top of her head, she turned her back to him and walked away.

And he didn't. 


	6. Waking

Title: Waking (6/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Snape experiencing the joys of psychogenic shock; lots of angsty  
introspection, and a decision regarding Willow.

***

__

I should have known. 

I should have known, and I didn't. I wasn't told.

Which means it's over. Just like that. Over.

The common room of the Three Broomsticks had simmered down to something resembling order upon the arrival of Dumbledore and several more of the Hogwarts staff, half an hour ago. The Aurors had retreated somewhat huffily to stand guard at the windows and doorways, and several owls had been sent off with detailed reports of the situation. There was a steady murmur of whispered conversation now, interspersed with shuffling footsteps and the familiar hiss and burbled of several simmering cauldrons brewing much-needed medicinal potions. An occasional cry or whimper interrupted the brittle calm, as less life-threatening injuries sustained in the rioting were tended. 

It was the older Hogwarts students doing most of the tending, the majority of the Ministry mediwitches and wizards having found the poison-extraction spell too draining to be able to mend so much as a papercut afterwards. The fidgety mediwizard who'd been ineptly trying to treat Seamus Finnegan fainted upon attempting it. 

The white-haired mediwitch - absurdly enough, none other than one Eliza Weasley, great aunt to the current Weasley brood and an old school chum of Poppy Pomphrey's - was still up and about, barking out impatient instructions to her new recruits. Poppy was attending the worst injured, currently sealing a nasty gash a fourth-year Hufflepuff had obtained from a shattering store window. 

Several of the bitten students were awake by now, among them Dennis Creevey, who was relating the experience of being poisoned to his brother in animated, cheerful tones that suggested the whole thing had been quite the adventure. Minerva McGonagall - _just like a Gryffindor to get herself bitten trying to be heroic, snatching a parchment away from a student; she's not even muggle-born - _had awoken in short order and promptly been charmed back to sleep when she refused to lay still. 

There were others who weren't recovering so quickly or well. 

The Weasley twins perched, still and somber as marble carvings, to either side of Angelina Johnson's cot. Miss Johnson, who had scarcely passed a single potions class without losing Gryffindor points for her insufferable chatter, lay silent, her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly and far too slowly. The boys' Aunt Eliza kept finding reasons to shuffle past them, arms full of warmed blankets or cups of potion, muttering in reassuring tones that these sorts of comas rarely lasted more than a few days. 

It sounded distinctly like bullshit to Snape, and from the looks on the boys' faces, they weren't buying it either. One of the twins - he never could tell them apart, not that he'd ever tried very hard - would nod mechanically at this. The other just stared. Their younger sister, who had been conscripted to blanket-warming duty under Flitwick's supervision, kept darting worried glances between the twins and the far corner of the room, nearest the kicked-out door.

Where huddled Draco Malfoy, who had suffered not a scratch but was in such a vitriolic mood that even Crabbe and Goyle were keeping their distance. He was returning the Weasley girl's furtive glances with something that looked almost like fear, and he'd lost Slytherin 10 points when he snapped at Poppy Pomphrey to leave him the fuck alone. 

__

Out of character, that. Snapping obscenities at a teacher is something I'd expect from a Gryffindor, not Lucius' boy. 

Undoubtedly disappointed no one's died yet. Father dearest won't be pleased.

And what interest Malfoy's loss of control can possibly be to Miss Weasley, I cannot begin to fathom. 

Every now and then Malfoy's rather feral looking eyes would wander to Snape, and quickly away again. 

__

And just like that, it's over.

The thought kept repeating itself inside Severus Snape's head; he knew he should have felt something about it. Complete and utter terror came to mind. There was only one possible interpretation. If Voldemort and his Death Eaters trusted him, he would have been included in the planning of this little stunt. At the very least, he should have been warned to keep his head down. Get the children of his own, favored house safely out of the way. 

__

But I wasn't. Wasn't given the slightest hint. Not a whisper. 

Which means, of course, that they don't trust me.

Which means I've failed. 

And really, that ought to mean something.

My torturous death is now undoubtedly quite high on Voldemort's list of priorities. 

I've let Dumbledore down; I've failed in the single most important task given to me by the man who is the only reason I'm not currently rotting in Azkaban, or worse.

And I must have done something to give myself away; some moronic, self-righteous, transparent thing. Flinched when I should have laughed. Paled when I should have flushed. All I had to do was act like the soulless filth I know I am, but oh no, somewhere in there I had to let some hint of moral indignation slip - as if I have any right to even feel it, let alone display it.

It's disgusting, really. Beyond shameful. The only thing in your godsforsaken life that you could do to earn the right to breath, and you couldn't even manage it. 

It ought to sting a little, at the least. I should feel *something*.

He thought perhaps it had been the last revel. There had been several moments when he'd felt the nearly irrepressible urge to whip out his wand and curse them all straight to hell - _or to be more precise, a more literal hell than the one they'd already summoned to earth_.

__

Must not have repressed as well as you thought. There's that muscle in your jaw that twitches. It could have been that. 

Of course, it could have been nothing so dramatic.

One too many a passing grade to a mudblood student, maybe. 

He used to be fickle like that, the last time he was in power. No sense of practicality. He'd hex you for not being *creative*. 

It could have been anything, really. 

It could even have been Quirrel, four years ago. Wrack his brain though he had, for many a sleepless night for months after Potter's little escapade, he could never be sure if he'd given himself away. His actions could have been those of a devoted Death Eater determined to keep the Stone for his master; after all, he'd had no reason to suspect Quirrel and Voldemort were related at all, let alone sharing the same being. It could have been interpreted that way.

But it also could have been interpreted .. _well, as it had really occurred. And he never was a fool. _

In fact, it's entirely possible I was never really accepted back . . that this was all a bit of amusement for the Dark Lord. Pull the strings on the muggle-loving traitor, see how we can make him dance, and he doesn't even know he's our plaything. Thinks he's doing something noble, thinks he's his own man now. Watch his face, see how he tries not to show that it's making him sick, look how he's going pale. 

They could have been watching for months, the vultures, laughing behind their hands. 

And it really should have stirred some feeling in him other than relief. 

Something a bit more dire than, _thank Merlin, it's OVER. _

"You did well, Severus," said a firm, if somewhat cautious voice from over Snape's shoulder. He turned to see Albus Dumbledore giving him an a look that was both appraisal and question. 

"I'm not going to go slit my wrists, if that's what you asking," Snape answered scathingly. 

"Of course you wouldn't," Dumbledore answered good-naturedly. "If you were going to commit suicide, I rather think you'd choose poison." Snape gave an inelegant snort, which was as close as he was willing to come to conceding the point _Both points, that is . . that I'd never do something so mugglishly crude as open my veins, and secondly that if he thought for a moment I were honestly suicidal, he wouldn't be mucking about the issue. _

Though why I'm not, Merlin only knows. 

A small noise at his elbow caught his attention; the wandless witch was muttering and frowning in her sleep. He didn't know quite what he was doing, keep watch beside her cot, but the head Auror was still giving her looks that said quite clearly he'd like nothing better than to turn her over to the nearest available dementor. It hadn't seemed right to leave her lying there alone, unguarded. 

"Now this is interesting," Dumbledore commented; Snape startled, thinking for a moment that the Headmaster meant _his _uncharacteristic sentimentality. _But there's no reason I can't be, now, is there? It's over. Over. _The older wizard wasn't watching him, though; he was peering quite intently into the redhead's blood-drained and grimacing face. She twisted in her sleep, eyes scrunching tightly closed, muttering something about dawn. 

Dumbledore reached a wizened hand out and brushed a strand of coppery hair off the girl's damp forehead; she stilled under his fingertips, and with a soft sigh from pale lips, slipped into deeper sleep. 

"Eliza tells me this girl is the only reason any of these children are alive," Dumbledore commented, pulling the witch's blanket up to her chin, tucking her in like a fond parent. Snape felt a sudden stab of something that was almost jealousy. _He does that so . . effortlessly. _

"Ms. Weasley is entirely correct," he answered. "The Ministry's idea of 'proper procedures' . . " he let it trail off in disgust, shaking his head. Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. 

"I don't suppose any of them have surmised why our mysterious stranger is in her current condition?" the Headmaster asked, tone neutral and voice low.

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Recognize magic abuse?" Snape snorted.

"Keep your voice down, Severus," Dumbledore admonished in that same carefully casual tone. "So you, I gather, have solved the puzzle."

"She's a crank," Snape said bluntly. "Though I think not for very long, or she'd be quite dead." He waited expectantly for some reproof at his use of the rather vulgar street terminology, but Dumbledore just nodded and frowned. 

In proper clinical terms she was suffering from the after-effects of having her own magical energies summoned up and, rather than directed to a purpose, recirculated through her body. The energy apparently created a feeling of euphoria, and sometimes hallucinations - or so he'd heard. Escapism had never been his particular weakness, particularly not when it was obtained by means that could leave one burnt out or dead. 

__

And with the sheer volume of power in her, I have no earthly idea why she's not either dead or a vegetable. 

"Eliza also tells me that the spell she performed required enormous magical power," Dumbledore commented, echoing Snape's thoughts. _Which translates roughly to: is she safe? Is she a threat to the children?_

He considered her wan face, now relaxed in deep sleep. He thought his first assessment of her had probably be close to correct; she looked little older than a student herself. _But with so much power. And wandless. And clearly not a stranger to the less savory uses of that power. _

But control, too. The spell she performed required more than brute strength. 

An image formed in his mind; her contorting face, those so-fascinating lips twisting around muttered threats, the tension in every quivering line of her lithe body, as she performed the poison extraction. The realization that at least half of the strain had been caused by damaged nerves did nothing to lessen his awe. _Merlin, but the pain she must have been in . . and to still have such control . . bugger that, to still give a damn, even. _

Narcissa went in for cranking, particularly after she and Lucius were married, before she got pregnant with Draco. I can remember her writhing on the floor when it wore off. She couldn't *stand*, never mind perform advanced healing spells. 

And she had nothing like the power of this girl. 

Dumbledore was waiting, one eyebrow arched expectantly. 

"They -" Snape gave a clearly derisive wave in the direction of the head Auror "- want to arrest her. Unauthorized practice of advanced healing spells without use of a wand."

"I see," Dumbledore said neutrally at Snape's non-answer. The older wizard paused and considered a moment. "And I suppose that's just what they'll do the minute she regains consciousness, if she's transferred to St. Mungo's."

"Someone at St. Mungo's is bound to be a trifle more astute about . . certain tell-tale symptoms," Snape commented, his tone as carefully indifferent. 

"I would expect so, yes," Dumbledore agreed.

__

And why am I *not* indifferent? 

She saved a large number of lives today. Strangers to her. All these innocent children. Minerva. And must have been feeling like someone was pouring acid down her nerves the entire time. 

And since when has such self-flagellating heroism impressed you?

She can't be all angelic altruism. She was willing to abuse her magic at least once before.

And there was something in her life that made it desirable . . made it necessary that she find a way out of her own mind. Regardless of the price.

And she's in muggle clothing. And wandless.

And I think, more the fool I, that I would pay quite dearly to understand her. To understand a woman - barely a woman - who could sink so low as cranking, but be willing to damn near kill herself to save the lives of strangers. 

And she told that Auror to . . what was it, some muggle expression . . I believe the words were 'bite me'.

He was startled to realize she'd reminded him of himself . . and it hadn't caused him to feel ill. For all the direness of the situation, she made him .. curious. She _amused _him. 

And he could either allow her into the school, allow an enormously powerful wandless junky within easy striking distance of his students - or he could leave her to the mercies of a Ministry gone nearly rabid with panic at the re-emergence of You-Know-Sodding-Well-Who. 

"I'm going to trust your judgement in this, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. 

***

Willow woke slowly, feeling deliciously safe and warm, surrounded by the scent of clean linens. For a moment she just snuggled more deeply into her pillow and enjoyed the soft golden glow of winter sunlight through closed eyelids. 

Someone was talking quietly somewhere to her left. 

" - against Slytherin, remember, so we're really going to need you," the voice was saying. "'specially since Alicia's mum and dad whisked her off. She didn't want to go until you'd woken up but they were in quite a snit, and you know she's not 18 yet, so she had to. Me and George said we'd come kidnap her if she liked, since her folks couldn't very well get mad at her if it wasn't her fault she ended up back here, but McGonagall heard and didn't think it was funny. Told us both off."

There was a pause.

"Nothing much is funny lately, actually. It's right depressing around here. You'd think people'd be happy nobody died, wouldn't you? Just about like thumbing our noses at them, it is, having the nerve to all survive."

Pause again.

"So anyhow, it'd just be the icing on the cake if we could knock the snot out of Slytherin next Saturday. And you know we need you to do that. Not that Finnegan isn't a good chaser, but he ain't you." 

Pause.

"So you gotta wake up, alright? And get on about it, 'cause I don't think Madam Pomphrey's gonna let you hop on a broomstick the minute you open your eyes. Best allow a few days for her to fuss over you. So really, I think, it'd be best if you could wake up by Tuesday or so."

Willow rolled over and blinked her eyes open, and saw that the speaker was a teenaged boy with hair as red as her own, sitting on the end of a bed occupied by a sleeping dark-haired, dark skinned girl. 

__

Oh God, that's the last girl I tried to de-poison, Willow remembered, all the peaceful warmth she'd felt upon waking draining away. _She's not awake yet? Oh God, did I do something wrong? I was really losing it by the time I got to her, maybe I missed some poison, or fried a bunch of her brain cells or -_

"Anyways, I'd best get back up to the tower," the boy said, standing and stretching. "We're not supposed to leave our common rooms yet; George set off a dung bomb in the fireplace so I could sneak out, but McGonagall's likely caught on by now."

"Wait!" Willow called, when the boy turned to leave. He spun around, features snapping into an expression of such obviously practiced innocence it almost made her laugh. _That is *so* Xander. _"Didn't mean to scare you -" he looked offended at that "- but couldja possibly tell me where I am?"

"You're at Hogwarts," he answered. 


	7. First Impressions, Second Chances

Title: First Impressions, Second Chances (7/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Willow chats with Dumbledore, we get to know Narcissa Malfoy, Snape gets to know Willow (no, not like that! gutter-brain!)

***

"Ah, Mr. Weasley!" called a resonant voice from down the center hall of the hospital wing. Both Willow and the redheaded boy turned.

Willow blinked. And blinked again.

__

Nope, don't think I'm hallucinating. 

Which means there's really a man in a pointed wizard's hat and long red robes with a long silver beard walking towards me. I think the wizards-and-witches dressing-like-they-stepped-out-of-children's-books thing is gonna take some more getting used to . . 

"And I see our guest has awoken," the elderly wizard turned to Willow, giving her a very grandfatherly smile, before turning back to the boy. "I thought I might find you here. And how is Miss Johnson?"

"I think she's the same, Sir," the boy's eyes kept darting towards the exits. 

"Yes, well, I suppose that's better than being worse," Dumbledore said philosophically. "Professor McGonagall has asked me to convey to you that the next time you wish to visit Miss Johnson, it might be more practical for you to simply ask her for a pass than to have your brother blow up the common room fireplace. It's far less messy and would save you both the trouble of having to attend detention." 

There was a hint of humor in the old man's eyes, and the boy grinned in a very unapologetic way. 

"Yes, Headmaster, sir," he agreed. "Very sorry about the mess, sir." He didn't look the least bit sorry. 

"Yes, well, it's been a messy sort of weekend," the older wizard said dismissively. "Now, if I could ask you a favor, before you return to your common room to join your brother in scrubbing the walls down?" The teenager made a face. 

"Sure thing, Headmaster," he answered. "Don't suppose it'd take a while, would it?" 

"If you could fetch Professor Snape here, it would be most helpful."

The boy's face screwed up in obvious horror and turned an interesting shade of green. 

"Couldn't I just have another detention?" he asked, and Willow thought he was only half-joking. 

"No," the older wizard said flatly. 

"Alright," the boy said. The old man raised an eyebrow. "I mean, yes Sir." The boy slouched off towards a doorway.

"Oh, and Mr. Weasley?" the Headmaster called after him. "Please do come and visit Miss Johnson again as soon as you can." The boy's grim expression lightened a little, and he nodded before leaving. 

"And now," the eldlerly wizard turned to Willow, "I must ask you to forgive me for not introducing myself. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." He held out a slender, wrinkled hand; despite its appearance of extreme age, it did not shake even slightly. 

"Pleased to meet you," Willow responded pleasantly, trying not to sound too dazed. _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? There are schools that teach magic? Like, real schools with Headmasters and stuff? _"Willow Rosenberg, ah, of Sunnydale. No particular title." She shimmed up into a sitting position as Dumbledore took out his wand and - she tried not to gape - literally *drew* a plush armchair next to her bed. 

"Sunnydale!" he exclaimed, settling down into the apparently very sold, well-cushioned chair.

"You've heard of it?" Willow asked.

"La Boca del Infierno," Dumbledore answered. "Or in English, the Hellmouth. Fascinating place. I haven't been there in .. oh, it must be 70 years now."

Something about that frame of time was tickling Willow's memory, but she let it go. 

"I wonder if it's changed," Dumbledore said in an almost fond way. His tone gave her a slight pang of homesickness, and she found herself instinctually liking the old man. 

"Probably not," Willow shrugged. "Lots of vampires, demons, various evil forces trying to end the world. Lots of clueless people living there. Oh, there's a Slayer - was there a Slayer when you were there?"

"No, no Slayer," Dumbledore said, almost wistfully. "I believe the Slayer of that time was quite busy in Austria, poor girl. I've heard some of the most amazing things about your Slayer, though - that she's come back from the dead? Twice?"

Willow's stomach lurched. _Does he know?_

"Yep, that'd be Buffy," she said, trying to keep her tone light and conversational. "Can't keep her down even if ya bury her."

"Fascinating," the older man said again, and Willow got the distinct and uncomfortable impression he knew a great deal more than he was saying. 

"If you don't mind my asking," Willow tried to carefully steer the conversation towards less perilous ground, "Where exactly am I? I mean, are we? I wasn't real clear on where Hogsmeade was even, and now we're not there, and I don't know if here is near to there, though there's the whole 'Hog' theme -"

"You are in Scotland," Dumbledore cut off her babbling in a gentle tone, "And not more than an hour's walk from Hogsmeade."

"Ah," Willow said. "Okay. This is really a magic school?" she blurted before she thought better of it. 

__

Way to sound like a tourist. Real smooth. 

"Oh yes," the old man nodded, looking as if he were fighting a smile. "One of several in Europe - and one of the very best in the world, if you'll forgive me saying so myself. There are two such schools in the United States - in Roswell, New Mexico and Roanoke, Virginia, I believe."

__

Roswell? Holy crap does that explain a lot of things . . 

"You never received a letter from either institution?" Dumbledore inquired, tilting his head. 

"No," Willow shook her head. "Should I have?"

"I'd say so, yes," he answered, thoughtfully. "Perhaps something to do with the Hellmouth interferes with the detection of magical potential in its vicinity. Absolutely fascinating thing, the Hellmouth. I've thought of retiring there, you know."

"Uh-okay," Willow answered, in a tone that she hoped didn't convey her doubts as to his sanity. 

__

And, _I should have gotten a letter._

I could have gone to a real school to learn real magic. Wow. Oh wow. I don't know that I even want to consider the what-ifs there . . I think my head might explode . . 

"I took the liberty of having your belongings transferred here from the Three Broomsticks," Dumbledore went on. "Your suitcase is currently in my office; I felt it was best not to leave such a large quantity of Muggle currency here in the hospital with you unconscious and unable to attend it. Of course, many of the students wouldn't even recognize Muggle bills, never mind American dollars, but .. a few might, and while I trust my children in the larger things, I've found over the years that in the smaller things . . it is sometimes best not to offer too much temptation."

"Oh," Willow responded to this rambling speech. "Wait .. how'd you know -"

"Your suitcase was laying open, back at your room at the inn," Dumbledore supplied.

"Ah," Willow responded, and blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply -"

"Oh, feel free to imply," he waved away her apology. "After all, you are a stranger in a strange place, and I confess I'd think a little less of you if you weren't a just a bit suspicious."

Willow found she had nothing to say to that. 

"Of course, your belongings will be returned to you instantly upon request, now that you've awoken," Dumbledore assured her. "Or, if you decide to stay with us, I can have them transferred to your rooms."

"Stay with you?" Willow repeated, feeling as if she must have missed something. _Or a few somethings. _

"Oh dear," the kindly-looking old wizard frowned. "Haven't I mentioned? I'd like to offer you a job."

__

And to that a resounding *huh*?

"A job," Willow mimicked tonelessly, and silently congratulated herself that she'd managed to keep her voice from squeaking. 

"Yes, a teaching position," Dumbledore affirmed. "And perhaps some supervision of students outside the classrooms, if that's not too much trouble."

Willow blinked. 

"What would I teach?" she asked incredulously after a moment's stunned pause. "And - you do know I don't have any kind of degree, don't you? Or certification? Or clue about formalized teaching of magic?"

"Severus tells me you were quite competent back at the Three Broomsticks, not withstanding your lack of formal education," Dumbledore argued gently. "And you did survive life on a Hellmouth for many years. I'm sure there's something in your experiences that would be of benefit to our students."

"Severus?"

"A tallish, dark-haired gentleman with a rather prominent nose."

"Oh, him!" Willow nodded in recognition. "Didn't really get names, with all the panicking and people having fits and trying to die."

"That is most distracting," Dumbledore agreed calmly, and Willow thought she saw a slight twinkle in his eye.

"But anyway," Willow went on, reluctantly but firmly. "Even if you're more of a skills-orientated kinda place than a fancy-degrees-on-the-wall sort of institution . . I still couldn't. I really shouldn't . . I shouldn't be teaching anybody. Especially not children. And, not magic. Me and magic and impressionable young minds is just a really huge bad idea. On the potential disaster scale of one to ten, it's about a twelve."

__

And I think that was nicely clear and concise without divulging too much information of the personal and humiliating sort. 

"Ah," Dumbledore said in a knowing way. "You would be referring to your previous magic abuse."

Willow gaped. _Okay, so much for the lack of humiliation._

But how . . huh . . okay, this is gonna call for whimpering very shortly . . annoying omniscient British guys . .

"You know . . " she let it trail off, unable to think of a non-incriminating way to end the question. _After all, I don't really know WHAT he knows. He could be talking about the whole no-wand thing. He might know nothing. And I'm so onto him and his leading comments! Been around the block a few times, thank you, not going to be giving myself away that easy!_

Except, don't you want to give yourself away? There's the whole matter of declining a teaching job. 

Which sucks, big time. I get offered a job teaching magic in Scotland, and I have to turn it down.

I believe this would be the law of three-fold returns taking a nice big bite out of my ass . . 

"I know none of the particulars," Dumbledore said placatingly. "What I do know, I know because you collapsed showing clear signs of magic .. I believe the Muggle phrase is 'overdose'. It's not uncommon when one tries to use magic properly after having had a great deal of magical energy circulated pointlessly through their body. Fortunately, the effect is as temporary as it is unpleasant - assuming one does not show the poor judgement to repeat the ill use of magic that started the whole mess." 

He said all of this in a carefully neutral tone, but Willow felt herself flushing despite the lack of judgement from the older wizard.

__

Ah. Yeah, that'd make sense. Explains Rack's need to 'take a little tour'. Summoning of excess magic, check. Lack of any direction for the magic, check. Hallucinations and other sundry symptoms of having chicken fried brain cells, check. Yeah, that sounds pretty much like what I had done to me. 

One rank, arrogant amateur, check.

I really thought I was smarter than to let some street hustler do things to me that I didn't even understand . . of course, I also thought I was a better person than would alter Tara's mind . . or break Dawnie's arm . . 

"That's not all. I've done worse," Willow confessed miserably. "Really, you don't want me around kids. I don't want me around kids."

"Then why are you here?" Dumbledore asked.

"What?" Willow frowned, confused again. 

"I had, as you know, a brief glance at your luggage," the older wizard explained, "and I know you'd taken your room at the Three Broomsticks just that morning, at rather an odd hour. You'll have to forgive an intrusive observation, but by all accounts, it appears you've been running away."

"Well, okay, yeah," Willow admitted. "But I wasn't running to here. I mean, I didn't think last night 'gee, I'm a danger to myself and others, so I ought to get out of here and go teach magic at a fancy prep school.'"

"So where were you running to?" Dumbledore pressed, his tone polite but with a hint of a challenge.

"I hadn't really gotten to that part yet," Willow answered defensively. _I was going to the place where people wear pointy witches' hats._

I was going somewhere that I could be somebody else. 

"So how do you know you weren't running here?" he asked, quirking a wizened eyebrow at her speculatively. 

"Because I wasn't," Willow insisted. "I didn't mean to be here, or in the middle of all this .. whatever this is, which incidentally, I'd really like to know at some point. Because so far as I know, there's just the one Hellmouth, and I just left it way back across an ocean - and that whole snake incident was totally Hellmouth stuff. But that wasn't really the point I was making -"

"Life rarely puts us where we mean to be," Dumbledore interrupted, "but it does tend to put us where we're meant to be."

"I wasn't meant to be here," Willow argued, growing more than a little irate. _Not in the mood for philosophical mumbo-jumbo just now. _"I'm here because I did a really crappy thing to my friend's little sister, okay? I hurt a kid. Well, teenager, but still. I did bad stuff. No meant-to-be involved; just me screwing up big-time and needing to get gone."

"Mr. and Mrs. Creevey disagree with you," Dumbledore commented mildly. 

"Mr. and Mrs. who?" Willow demanded in exasperation. 

"Creevey," Dumbledore repeated. "Very pleasant people. Muggles. They were here earlier to visit their sons, and I'm pleased to say they decided to allow them to remain at school. I believe you've met Colin, their eldest. You're also the reason they still have their youngest, Dennis. They asked me specifically to relay to you, when you woke, that they're convinced God sent you here for just that purpose, and that they feel you must be a greatly blessed sort of person."

"But - I'm not -" Willow protested. 

"I have similar well-wishes from a Ms. Clearwater, who's daughter Cassandra you treated - though her extolling of your virtues has a more Neo-Pagan than Anglican flare to it. Also from Mrs. Weasley, who's son Fred you met just now - none of her children were injured, but apparently they were all quite enthusiastic about you, and she has a rather understandable tendency towards warm feelings for young people with red hair. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you receive a monogrammed sweater this holiday."

"But -" Willow tried to interject, feeling something very like panic creeping over her. _But these people can't think that about me . . I'm not this big deal special person . . I did -_

"But you have done some very dreadful things," Dumbledore nodded, speaking her thoughts aloud. "Do not think, Miss Rosenberg, that I cannot or do not appreciate the severity of your past errors." His tone darkened considerably, and eyes that had twinkled took on the hard gleam of steel. "I may not know precisely what you've done, nor am I asking, but rest assured I have an excellent imagination."

Willow swallowed as the older wizard let her appreciate the full force of his gaze. 

__

He's screwing with my head. I know that. Knowing isn't helping. 

This guy's got power. And not my kinda maybe-it-works-maybe-it-blows-up power.

It feels like he's looking right through my skin. Like he just knows things. 

"You would not be here, now, Miss Rosenberg, if I felt you were in any way a threat to the students of this school," Dumbledore went on, in that same steely, measured tone. "If I have made an error in judgement, and you become at some later time a threat to this school or its children, you will not remain here. If you cannot trust your own self-control, Miss Rosenberg, perhaps it would be a comfort to you to know that there are others here who are quite capable of preventing you from losing control too badly."

__

'Cause that's *so* comforting.

What's that hissing sound? Oh yeah, I think that's the air escaping as my ego deflates. 

"Okay," Willow squeaked meekly. 

"You have a great deal of raw power," Dumbledore said, and there was only the faintest hint of a compliment in his voice; it was simply the statement of a fact. "Also an astonishing degree of natural skill for one so little trained. I am eternally grateful for both, as you have prevented -" he paused a moment, and his tone softened ever so slightly - "you have prevented an error of mine from proving tragic. Put simply, I am in your debt, Miss Rosenburg."

"Is that why the job-offer?" Willow asked cautiously, feeling almost dizzy at all the twists and bends the conversation was taking. 

"Not at all," Dumbledore shook his head. "I have been speaking of why you are here and why you will be permitted to remain here. Severus believes you can be trusted, which is a rare thing. I trust him, and I happen to also agree with him. And if we have both been hoodwinked -" here he gave her a level stare that said clearly it would be best for her if he never had reasons to suspect that - "well, power and a certain aptitude aren't everything."

__

I think I miss Cordy's version of bluntness. At least she was just rude. Being politely told that you're being trusted because the one doing the trusting could kick your ass if need be .. it's just weird. 

And also, note to self; do not ever mention that you took on a god. 

"I've offered you a teaching position because, as I've said," Dumbledore answered, "I believe you have useful things to teach."

"But if I've just got power and beginner's luck -"

"I never said that was *all* you had," Dumbledore interrupted, arching an eyebrow. 

"So what *do* you want me to teach?" she asked.

"Are you agreeing to take the position?" he pressed. 

"I don't even know if I'm qualified, if you won't tell me what it is!" Willow exclaimed impatiently, and then felt immediately guilty. _The guy's giving you a chance, for no good reason whatsoever, and you're snapping at him; way to be a bitch._

"I expect you'll need to create your own curriculum," he said, with a shrug. "I'd advise you to begin by attending the other professors' classes, getting an idea for how things are done here. Something's bound to occur to you."

"So . . you want me to teach here . . but you don't know what you want me to teach?" Willow asked incredulously. 

"Would you accept the position on those terms?" Dumbledore asked, and she got the distinct impression the question was a test. "It's an offer many of my professors would give a great deal for; the chance to teach what you think is worth learning."

"A very great deal," said a dry, faintly amused-sounding voice.

***

A rush of air that fluttered the pages of her magazine - _The Sophisticated Sorceress - _told Narcissa Malfoy that something had been flung down on the desk in front of her. She'd recognized Lucius' footsteps coming into the room, but he hadn't acknowledged her, and so she hadn't acknowledged him either. It was one of her small rebellions, made somewhat less satisfying by the suspicion that her husband had no idea he was being snubbed. He'd commented more than once on her air-headedness, her apparent inability to take in what was going on around her. 

Very slowly and deliberately, she closed her magazine, picked up her glass of wine and sipped, replaced the glass on the desk. Then she glanced up at the publication that he been tossed down before her. 

It was the Daily Prophet, and the cover story blared 'DEATH EATERS ATTACK HOGWARTS STUDENTS!" in letters that blinked from black-on-white to white-on-black and back again. _And who came up with *that* idea? I'm glad I have no interest in the article, I'd give myself a migraine trying to read with the stupid paper *blinking* at me. _

The photo above the headache-inducing headline showed the Dark Mark above the Hogsmeade skyline, made slightly hazy by falling snow. 

"The Dark Lord approves of all this press?" she commented neutrally. "Such a public thing to do."

Lucius made a disgusted noise over her shoulder. 

"You *would* miss the point completely," he sneered, reaching around her to jab a finger at the picture. "Look at that! Draco did that!"

"Ah," Narcissa nodded, accepting his correction without comment. She peered more closely at the picture, using the page to hide the angry flush on her pale cheeks. _Insufferable bastard. _"It looks well-cast. Very distinct, even through the snow."

"Very impressive for a boy who's a 'mere child' and 'much too young', wouldn't you say?" Lucius snapped at her, and then turned to stalk out of the room, leaving her alone again. 

She let out a tense breath. 

The Dark Mark sneered at her; she had the absurd temptation to up-end her glass of wine over it. Instead she swallowed the blood-red liquid in one long gulp. It burnt faintly at the back of her throat, but not nearly enough to be satisfying. 

She hadn't felt the need for something *much* stronger than wine so keenly in years. _Not since I knew I was carrying Draco, I think. _

My boy. My precious, fair-haired boy. 

My one and only good reason not to let it just go a little too far one night . . crank up just a little too much, let it melt my brain and just float away . . 

With pale, elegant fingers she carefully turned the Daily Prophet over, hiding the picture. It was much easier to remember that Lucius was devilishly observant, and likely to notice if she shredded the printed evidence of their son's 'triumph', without the Dark Mark leering up at her. 

__

Leering at me. All any of them ever did, wasn't it? Leer at me.

Oh, not ever after I married Lucius, certainly. Couldn't leer at Malfoy's wife, could you? Very bad form, even if you've been banging her since 5th year. You and everybody else. 

And I thought I'd caught such a prize . . wealthy, powerful, spine-tinglingly handsome, the Dark Lord's favored fair-haired boy . . 

Of course, I also thought they all actually liked me. Didn't do anything every man there didn't do, at all the revels. 

But it's not the same. Can't ever be the same. Gods, but what an idiot I was. 

The back page of the paper advertised All-New, Improved Temperature-Stabilizing Cauldrons. Never Ruin a Potion Again Because of Uneven Heating! Every House Needs One! 

The temptation to set the damned thing ablaze was growing again. She tucked the paper into a drawer.

A subtle scurrying sound caught her attention, and she turned quickly to the door. 

A tiny gray mouse was creeping across the room. It stopped in the middle of the plush carpet, stood on its hind legs, and made a movement that was very like a bow.

Heart in her throat, Narcissa retrieved her wand from the desk and murmured a ward for the door, the very subtlest ward she knew. _Just walk past. Don't notice me, don't look at me, there's nothing you care about in here. _

"Yes?" she inquired of the mouse. 

It straightened, and then seemed to grow taller. It rippled, form shifting. In moments a small, slender, very plain young woman stood where the mouse had been. Her hair was the same indistinct gray-brown as the mouse's fur, her eyes as narrow and shrewd. 

"Lady," she said in a high, whispery voice, and bowed. Narcissa nodded, at her most regal. 

"I trust you managed to follow him?" Narcissa asked. 

"Yes, Lady," the woman answered in that same twitchy, breathy voice. 

"And?" Narcissa demanded, her voice taking on an impatient edge. Her pulse was still hammering unpleasantly, and she had to clench her fists so hard her elegant nails dug into her palms to keep herself from fidgeting. It wouldn't do to fidget before her inferiors, those in whom she needed to instill absolute respect. 

__

Gods, just a little . . just a few moments, just to take the edge off . . what I wouldn't give . . 

But not Draco. I wouldn't give my son. Must stay calm. Must stay in control. 

"Young Master Malfoy did indeed produce the Dark Mark, Lady," the mousy woman reported, and her voice sounded even more anxious than usual. "He avoided detection while . . while doing so. Of course, it was appropriately timed. It caused qu-quite a good bit of panic in the streets, Lady."

"So he will have passed," Narcissa said neutrally. Her hands clenched so hard she felt the sting of breaking skin, the warm trickle of blood down her wrist. _That's good then, good, good, he won't be in danger . . they'll be pleased with him . . oh gods he's too young, it's all too uncertain now, he won't understand it's not a game, he won't understand, like I didn't understand . . but at least for now he's safe . . _But then she saw how the plain woman's face was twitching, her lips pressed together as if she seemed on the verge of speech, but uncertain what the consequences might be. 

"There's something else," she said flatly. 

"Yes, Lady," the woman squeaked. And then was silent once more. 

"*Well*?" Narcissa snapped, and winced internally at the petulant whine in her voice. 

"You know I hold you and the young Master in utmost respect, Lady," the animagus all but whimpered. 

"Then answer my question!"

"H-he was sick, Lady," the woman said quietly. 

"Draco's ill?" Narcissa repeated, puzzled. _Not that I want him to be ill, but if he's caught cold, I'm sure it's nothing they can't handle at Hogwarts. _

"N-no, Lady," the woman said almost inaudibly, seeming to shrink in on herself; the woman, like the creature who's form she took, seemed almost able to contract her body down to non-existence. "H-he sicked up, Lady. After he shot up the Mark. He looked r-right pleased with himself, a moment, and t-then all the sc-screaming started, and he l-looked like somebody kicked him r-right in the gut, L-lady, went all p-pale and was sick. And t-then -" The woman paused, swallowing hard. 

"Go on," Narcissa whispered harshly, feeling like she wouldn't be able to breath until the tale was finished. _All the pieces. Must have all the pieces, must think, must be calm._

"S-someone found him, Lady," the woman squeaked out. "A g-girl. N-no one of your acquaintance, L-lady, r-ratty old r-robe, and r-red hair. S-she kicked h-him -" Narcissa drew in a swift breath, and the woman flinched, but continued - "a-and he l-laughed, L-lady. Like h-he'd gone m-m-mad, L-lady."

"What then?" Narcissa hissed, wracking her brain for remembrance of red-haired girls, but the only red-heads who came to mind were the Weasleys, personal bane of her husband's existence. 

__

Do they have a daughter? 

Can't remember. 

Must think, must know these things, must pay fucking attention you stupid little whore how can you not know if the Weasleys have a girl?

"T-they talked, L-lady. I d-didn't hear everyt-thing, L-lady, but he seemed f-familiar w-with her. S-she grabbed his w-wand, but then she g-gave it b-back."

"A lover?" Narcissa asked. _Could Draco have a lover? He's so young . . older than I was, but it's different, very different for a boy. _

"I c-couldn't s-say, Lady," the mousy woman answered. Narcissa nodded, mind buzzing with a thousand possibilities, and each of them with a sting in the tail. 

__

He got sick. Sick at people screaming. 

And the girl - a Weasley? A lover? Good lord, a lover who's a Weasley? No, he wouldn't be so foolish . . I don't think . . but he's so young, and Merlin knows I was stupid about things like that . . so stupid, so very stupid and weak and I never liked the screaming and the blood either, always made sure I was gone by then, far gone, drunk or cranked up or something and just there for the banging afterwards, for the jubilation on their faces, you're such a sport Cissy, wish they'd made ten of you, 'spose you're gonna go get yourself hitched on us one of these days, aren't you, girl like you? Won't you miss this, Cissy, won't you miss me?

But they didn't miss me. Not one. Well, maybe Severus, but that hardly counts, does it? 

Can't go missing Malfoy's wife, probably best he forgets what things were like before, probably best not to even look at her . . 

Don't look, don't see the bruises, and if she's twitching, well, you know Cissy, likes to get cranked up, such a sport Cissy was, and not likely Malfoy'd use the Crutiatus on his own wife, is it? 

"L-lady?" said a hesitant, twitchy, breathy voice, interrupting the downward spiral of her thoughts. 

"Go," she waved dismissively with the hand that wasn't bleeding. "You did well. Keep following him. Report anything interesting."

"Yes, Lady," the woman said in obvious relief. There was a faint whooshing noise of displaced air, and then she was a mouse again, scurrying back out the door, leaving Narcissa to her memories.

__

And the only thing, the one, single, solitary thing that came of it that was worth anything at all was my boy. Draco, my little dragon. My fair-haired baby boy. 

Who gets sick when people scream. 

I was always so happy he wasn't like his father .. oh, he had a mean streak, like any little boy, they all live for pulling wings off flies . . but he wasn't Lucius. He never really thrived on it. 

They'll eat him alive.

Hands still fisted, palm still bleeding, fighting the nearly desperate need for a fix, for something, anything to still the clambering of her pulse and the screaming panic in her brain, Narcissa felt something somewhere in her gut clench. 

It was a strange feeling. A bit terrifying. It made her rather painfully aware that she wasn't young anymore. But it wouldn't be denied, this feeling that was a tightening of every muscle in her body and a dropping feeling in her stomach and an image in her mind of a bright-haired boy tugging her sleeve and begging her to watch him on his new broomstick, _look at me Mum, look, I can fly -_ and the feeling coalesced into the single most coherent, clearest, sharpest thought of her adult life.

__

Well, they can't have him. 

***

" - and then Buffy says, 'It's in about nine hours, moron!'" And stakes him." This statement was accompanied by a rather vicious-looking stabbing motion with one hand. The little redheaded witch grinned up at him, doing some disconcertingly adorable thing that pressed her tongue against her teeth as she smiled. "So, no escaped Master, no open Hellmouth. Score one for the Scoobies, Hellmouth, zero. Okay, so the next time, it was the Master again - that vamp was one uber-pain-in-the-ass. And you know, 'uber' is all appropriate 'cause he was originally German, I think. Maybe he read too much Nietzsche, and that's where the whole delusions of grandeur thing came from. Though," and she frowned, pursing her lips, "I think he kinda pre-dated Nietzsche."

__

She babbles. 

Sweet Merlin, she babbles about Hellmouths and Nietzsche.

And she's going to be here indefinitely. Teaching .. something. 

I could happily strangle Dumbledore for just casually handing her an opportunity I'd kill for . . of course, I don't suppose she would kill for it, or for much else, and that's likely why she got it. 

And he gave her rooms right next to the Slytherin dormitories. Odd. I would have expected him to store her somewhere near Gryffindor. 

"So anyway," and her American accent drew the word out in a way that Severus Snape was positive he would have found most irritating coming from any other set of lips, "Next time, there was this whole big prophecy, though me and Xander didn't know about that until after, because Giles and Angel are both big buttheads about stuff like that. I don't blame Buffy for not telling 'cause she was, you know, all traumatized. Oh, 'cause the prophecy said she'd die! I didn't say that yet. So, hence, the traumatized Slayer - so she knew she was gonna die and she just marched right down there anyway, which I think may have been sorta a little my fault because there was a vampire attack at the school and I found bodies and I wigged out just a little. I think me wigging got her all kinds of pissed off. So she just marched on down there, and there was supposed to be this school dance so she had this really cool white dress on, and - you're sure I'm not so boring you wanna die?"

With some effort he beat down the impulse to laugh out loud at her choice of words. 

"Not at all," he assured her, gesturing for her to precede him down a staircase. She had paused, attention fixed to the opposite wall, gaping. He followed her gaze, and saw that the subjects of one of the foxhunting scenes had spotted their favorite prey in a wooded landscape and were now chasing the hapless creature across several very old portraits, much to the very vocal annoyance of their subjects. The faint bellowing of horns, yelping of hounds and clomping of hooves, underscored by cursing in medieval French and Old English, was echoing down the stairwell. 

A moment later he spotted the likely instigator; Peeves the Poltergeist was flying alongside the hunting party as it galloped from painting to painting, cheering them on. 

"Peeves!" Snape bellowed. The poltergeist turned in midair, the canvas-bound commotion he'd caused instantly forgotten as he snapped to mock attention. Then he noticed Willow, and shot right at her. 

She gave a small yelp, but stood her ground, and Peeves stopped with his ethereal face a bare inch from her nose. Then he rotated in midair so he was staring at her upside-down. 

"Uh, hi," Willow squeaked. 

"Oooh, it's an ickle American girl!" the poltergeist exclaimed, and then he shot down through the staircase just under Willow's feet, blaring out a rather obscene version of "Yankee Doodle Dandy", including a reference to brightly-colored knickers that had the redheaded witch squeaking and jerking her skirt tightly around her legs. Snape wondered idly how on earth the blasted thing had learned an American song than post-dated his earthly existence by several centuries. 

"I'll be informing the Bloody Baron of this, Peeves!" Snape leaned over the railing and hollered after the swiftly retreating apparition; he vanished into a dungeon wall several floors below them, leaving only the dissipating echo of his off-key serenade. 

"In my day -" began one of the more recent portraits, an aristocratic lady with a rather shrill voice, - "a *poltergeist* would *never* -"

"Oh, shut up!" Snape snapped at the oil painting. 

"Well, I *never*!" the shrill aristocrat huffed, grabbed up her wide skirts, and stalked off, leaving behind a canvas showing an empty sitting room.

"That was interesting," Willow commented in slightly faint voice. 

"He's harmless," Snape reassured her, and then wondered uncomfortably when he'd last reassured anyone about anything. "Just -" _ignore him, _he'd been about the finish, but was interrupted. 

"Was that Peeves?!" demanded an irate voice from a staircase above them; the rather unpleasant face of Argus Filch leaned over the railing, eyes alight with fanatical zeal. 

"He went that way," Snape said shortly, pointing downward. 

"Dumbledore'll hear of this," the old groundskeeper muttered as he clattered noisily past them, nodding brief thanks to Snape. "Some of the paintings very upset about this, complaining to the old Headmasters they'll be, he'll have to do something about it, this time he'll just have to -" The muttering faded into incomprehensibility as Filch hurried further down towards the dungeons and out of their hearing. 

A moment later Mrs. Norris streaked past them with an irate yowl. 

"Okay," Willow commented, in a tone that suggested she was having some difficulty processing the situation. "Okay, that was also interesting."

"The amusement of it wears off quickly, I assure you," Snape commented dryly. 

"I could see that," she nodded agreement. "The - ghost thing - went through the wall - can he get into, uh, private rooms?"

"Your rooms will be warded against unwelcome intrusions," he answered. 

"Oh good," she sighed in relief. "He was kinda squicky. Did I look like I thought he was kinda squicky?" she gave him a concerned frown. "'Cause he seemed like the type who'd take that as an open invitation to tease and torment. I wasn't obviously squicked, was I?"

"Not particularly," he answered. _*Squicked*? _

Babbles about Nietzsche and Hellmouths. Psychoanalyzes poltergeists. Uses words not actually part of any spoken language. Has obvious difficulties with self-confidence. 

Catches fascinating pale lower lip between teeth when nervous, he observed, riveted by her doing that very thing. 

"Do I have something on my face?" she asked, reaching up to rub at her obnoxiously pert little nose. 

"No," he snapped, irritated at himself. _Wanting to understand her is one thing. Staring at her lips . . no. _"Your rooms are still several floors down." He gestured again, rather curtly, for her to precede him. If she noticed his lack of courtesy, she didn't comment. 

"Okay, so getting back to the Hellmouth - so Buffy marches on down there to face the Master and -" with a rumbling, grinding sound of stone on stone, the staircase began to shift beneath their feet "- and he grabs her and holy crap the stairs are moving!" she finished in a squeal. She lurched slightly forward, and he reached out a hand to steady her. 

Her shoulder was warm, muscles tense beneath the practically non-existent film of her muggle shirt. The ends of her hair brushed the tops of his fingers as she swayed, trying to get her balance. He snatched his hand back as if burned the moment she caught hold of the railing. 

"They do that," he commented tonelessly. 

"That's . . interesting," she squeaked. 

He couldn't help it. He laughed. 

TBC . . . 


	8. Miles to Go

Title: Miles to Go (8/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Thoughts at 3a.m.

***

Draco stared up into blackness. 

Somewhere nearby, Crabbe was snoring. He could hear a faint shuffling that meant Millicent Bulstrode's damned cat had sneaked into the boys' dormitory again and was probably again trying to find a way to catch Blaise Zabini's thrice-damned bat, which roamed loose wherever the thing damn well pleased. Someone turned over in their sleep, rustling sheets. The plumbing shifted and clanked in the cold dark, ancient metal contracting with the chill of night. 

__

You have been a credit to your name and heritage today. 

The words of his father's letter whispered in Draco's head as he lay there, very still, his breathing the loudest thing in the small, dark world of his bed. His fingers brushed carefully, worriedly across the skin of his left arm, just below the bend of his elbow. It was cold and goose-bumped and unremarkable, just another square inch or so of the body he'd worn for almost sixteen years, the body that housed the veins in which flowed the pure wizard blood of the ancient and noble Malfoy line. 

__

A credit to your name and heritage. 

"You know I could curse you into next week."

"But you won't." 

Name and heritage . . 

He was very tired, feeling as if every particle of heat had been drained from his body, freezing but too emptied of all energy to even shiver. Sleep wouldn't come. His throat was still faintly raw, and he was thirsty, but getting up and getting a glass of water would mean moving. He didn't want to move. 

The tips of his fingers felt very rough, the skin on that tiny bit of his arm seeming unnaturally sensitive. _It's going to hurt, I think. It's going to hurt rather a lot. _

It's going to hurt more if I humiliate myself again. Fail again. Get sick when someone screams again . . get kicked in the balls and put thoroughly in my place by a little girl again . . 

Credit to your name and heritage .. 

. . but you won't. 

No one knows what a pathetic git I am. No one knows I was sick.

Except her. Who I could have cursed into next week. But I didn't. 

I wish I knew why the bloody hell not. The whole blasted universe would make a great deal more sense right now if I just knew that. 

Wish I could curse them all straight to hell. Weasel-girl and her Weasel-brother and Potter and Granger and Dumbledore. And Father and Snape and You-Know-Sodding-Bloody-Well-Who-You-Cowardly-Fucking-Little-Shit-Who-Can't-Even-Think-His-Name. He-Who-Will-Be-Burning-A-Hole-In-Your-Arm. 

Wish they'd all go to hell and just leave me here . . where it's quiet, cold, dark . . nobody screaming, no name, no blood, no tests . . no one trusting me . . trusting me not to curse her and I wish to bloody fucking hell I knew why she did that. 

Wish they'd all go to hell.

Somewhere in hell there's a screaming muggle girl covered in blood . . if muggles even go to hell, suppose they can't, don't have souls, but I think she is, I think she's in hell screaming and bloody and waiting for me . . 

I was a credit to my name and heritage, yesterday. 

I shot up the Dark Mark. 

I got sick in an alleyway and hid there and got kicked in the balls by a skinny redheaded little girl. 

I don't want a mark burnt on my arm. I like my arm the way it is. 

I'm afraid it's going to hurt. 

How old are you, boy? Your mother's fault for coddling you! 

You're right to be disgusted, Father. 

I'm pathetic. I'm pathetic and I hate you. 

And there's a screaming muggle girl waiting in hell for both of us. 

In the hazy mental picture that filled his brain as he succumbed to exhausted sleep, the girl was Ginny Weasley, and she had his father's wand pointed at his chest like a sword. 

***

Ginny Weasley turned over in her bed, kicking the covers down to her feet. She couldn't find a cool spot anywhere to lay, the entire bed lukewarm and unpleasant with her thrashing. Her feet were still too hot.

With a disgruntled sigh she sat up on the edge of the bed, shooting a venomous glare at her dorm-mates' curtain-shrouded beds. They always waited too long to snuff the fire, and it was always roasting in the middle of the night. They were always cold. Ginny was never cold.

She could practically hear her mother telling her she shouldn't complain, that she was hot all the time because her body burned up energy so quickly, and that's why she was so thin. 

__

Well, I'd rather be fat as a house and well-rested, thanks. 

She plucked up her wand from her bedside table and padded across the carpet and down the stairs to the bathroom, whispering a charm to light the wall sconces and flinching at the sudden brightness. The tile floor was blissfully cool under her toes. She sat down in a corner, pulling her nightshirt tightly over her knees in reflexive modesty. She picked up a magazine another girl must have discarded, skimmed the cover idly, and tossed it away again. 

__

Don't really have a need to know every wizard's secret bedroom weakness, do I? Not likely anyone's going to be interested in odd little Ginny. 

Besides, I think I know quite enough. There were disconcerting memories. Tom's memories. 

__

Stop thinking of him as *Tom*, like he's a distant cousin or something. Voldemort. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort! 

"Myrtle?" she called out hesitantly, her voice echoing softly in the tiled room. There was a faint whooshing noise from the plumbing, and a few moments later the silvery form of the ghost appeared over the top of one of the stalls. 

"My, you look dreadful," Myrtle greeted her cheerfully. 

"I'm still not dying, Myrtle," Ginny retorted tiredly. "Healthy as a horse."

"Oh well," Myrtle sighed with a shrug, and floated over to hover above one of the sinks. "What is it, then? Do you want to talk about Tom?" The ghost's eyes took on an avid gleam. 

"No," Ginny said shortly. Ever since she'd let her murderer's identity slip to the ghostly girl, Myrtle had become positively obsessed with relating her every glimpse and random encounter with Tom Marvolo Riddle to Ginny. _'Oh, this one time, I was late to Herbology, and I was running in the hall, and he stopped me and told me to slow down! He was Head Boy, you know, and I was very intimidated. And he gave me a very nasty look! Do you remember what he was thinking, Ginny? Was he plotting it? Was he planning how he was going to murder me?'_

__

Absolutely no use telling Myrtle not to call him Tom. She just loves it, like she knows some dreadful juicy secret. 

Which, I suppose, she does. 

"So what *do* you want?" Myrtle demanded irritably, her voice whining and petulant. "Or is this a prank? Just want to see if I'll come when I'm called, do you? I suppose you tell all the others how you've got stupid old Myrtle trained just like a dog!"

"I've never pranked you, Myrtle," Ginny sighed, shifting her feet to a new and cooler spot on the floor. 

"Your brothers have," Myrtle insisted. 

"My brothers prank *everyone*," Ginny answered. "Really, you'd have to be offended if they *didn't* prank you, because they prank everyone they think is worth noticing."

"Oh," Myrtle seemed to take this into consideration. "Well, they haven't pranked me in a very long while. I suppose they think I'm boring, do they?"

__

Everyone thinks you're boring, Myrtle.

"Nah, once they've gotten you good a time or two, they usually move on," Ginny lied. 

"So why are you awake in the middle of the night?" Myrtle pressed. "Oooh, is it a boy? Are you very heartbroken?"

__

Oh yes. Just not nearly like you think. 

"No, not a boy," Ginny said. "Just . . just things. I guess sort of a boy. But not in a *boy* way." 

Myrtle scrunched up her nose. "Well that didn't make much sense. I think you're just not telling me things. You're sure it's not about Tom again?"

"I guess it is a little," Ginny confessed, and Myrtle sidled up closer. Ginny didn't mind; the ghost was pleasantly cold. _I suppose she really would be very offended if I asked if I could stick my feet in her. _

And eww, that sounded wrong! She stifled a giggle. 

"It's not about anything I remember about Tom, it's just about . . well, I guess it's sort of about how I . . met him," Ginny continued, working out her thoughts aloud. "There's this other boy -" _Do NOT say his name, do not say ANYTHING that could EVER let her guess who! - _"and I think he's maybe a little . . well, like maybe the same thing's happened to him."

"Tom's possessed another student?" Myrtle asked breathlessly, and Ginny wondered idly how she managed that tone when she hadn't had breath in years. "Oooh, is he going to try to kill more people? Is there another monster?"

"No, no, not like that," Ginny shook her head. "I just mean . . maybe somebody else who . . who's had somebody making them do stuff they don't want to do. Maybe somebody who'd understand?"

"I'm not good enough?" Myrtle asked with a sniff, drawing away, shoulders setting for a good sob. The ghost's voice was spiraling upwards towards hysteria. "I don't understand you?"

"No, of course I don't mean that!" Ginny snapped. She'd learned months ago that placating didn't work with Myrtle. "I'm talking to you now, aren't I?"

"Just because it's the middle of the night and no one else -"

"Oh, *stop*," Ginny said with an exasperated wave. "Yes, yes, poor put-upon you. Do you want to hear or not?" 

Myrtle paused, half-way to a really good tantrum. She seemed on the verge of sweeping off wailing regardless, but then her posture changed, and she floated back towards Ginny.

"Only because I've nothing better to do," the ghost said with a very long-suffering air. 

"I couldn't talk to this boy anyway," Ginny said. "He's not . . he's not very nice. I don't like him. Nobody likes him, he's a complete git."

"Sounds dreadful," Myrtle commiserated with great relish. 

"But I feel like . . this is so confusing . . I feel *responsible*."

Myrtle frowned. 

"Why?" the ghost asked after a moment, sounding honestly bewildered for once. 

"Because of Tom," Ginny said softly. "It's stupid, but sometimes . . I feel like . . well, what a waste I made of it, you know?"

"Of Tom?" Myrtle repeated, puzzled. 

"I guess," Ginny shrugged. "Here I am, knowing all about him . . and . . well, fat lot of good it's doing anyone."

"So you feel like it's your fault, about this other boy," Myrtle concluded. 

"And other things," Ginny nodded. "I hate not doing anything. And I guess what happened . . with this other boy, and everything else, which I guess you've heard all about . . it made me feel all sorry for him even though I hate him and it just reminded me what it felt like not being in any control at all, and it's all just so . . it's all just so *frustrating*!"

"That sounds sort of like being dead," Myrtle commented. 

Ginny nodded, and shivered. 

***

Hermione glanced up at a small noise from the hallway outside her dorm room; she thought she heard footsteps. When she paused to listen, though, there was nothing, just Crookshanks jumping up onto the bed behind her and meeping softly, arching and rubbing against her back. 

She reached one hand behind her to pet the cat, while the other scrubbed angrily at her eyes as she bent back down into the soft sphere of light emanating from the tip of her wand. It lay on her bedspread surrounded by a handful of crumpled, discarded scrolls. 

Crookshanks settled fussily onto the pillow behind her with much circling and kneading. She sniffled and hiccuped, and dug both sets of knuckles against her eyelids so hard she saw stars. 

__

Don't be an *idiot*, Hermione, it's nothing to cry about. 

You ought to be ashamed, crying over something so silly, with all that's happenedw. 

Drawing in a shaky, resolute breath, she picked up her quill and smoothed a fresh parchment out atop a heavy book, set the book on her knees and began very determinedly to write. 

__

Dear Viktor, 

It's the middle of the night here. This is the fourth time I've tried to write this letter. I don't know what to say. I'm fine. Please tell me you didn't really stay awake until you received this. You're going to fall off your broom in practice from sheer exhaustion and then I'll be the one who can't sleep for worrying while you're lying in a hospital somewhere having your bones re-grown. So you see, worrying so much about me is really quite inconsiderate of you. 

She gave a watery little giggle at her own wit. 

__

(I am joking, you know - except that I do hope you haven't been waiting up all this time)

Then she bit her lip. 

__

I don't know how to say this next without sounding like an utter twit, but it does need saying, so here goes. You're going to laugh at me, unless of course you become completely disgusted with me, which I would very much understand. 

A teardrop splattered onto the parchment, feathering the still-wet ink into indistinct blurs. With a muttered, bitten-off curse she snatched up her wand and whispered the charm to correct the damage, in the process dousing her magical light. For a moment she fumbled in the dark, nearly upsetting her inkpot. Crookshanks gave a disgruntled meow and re-adjusted himself on the pillow behind her. 

__

The thing is, Hermione wrote on once she'd gotten her wand re-ignited and could again see the parchment, _I really wanted to get you something just right for Christmas. _

That sounds just pathetic, doesn't it? One of my friends is down in the hospital in a coma, and this morning I was worried about Christmas gifts. I really won't mind if you want to tell me what a shallow, awful person I am. But you see, because I was so determined to find you just the right thing - well, I haven't found you anything, just yet. And I hadn't even begun thinking about your parents or your sisters. 

And now we're not going to have any more Hogsmeade weekends, perhaps not for the rest of the year, certainly not for the rest of the term. Even owls in and out are being strictly monitored. There'll be no more chances to buy so much as a card before the term ends, never mind a real gift. And I won't be home until three days before Christmas, which is much too short a time to get anything from London to Bulgaria. 

So I just wanted you to know - and please try to explain to your parents that I'm not ignoring them or snubbing them and tell Oksana and Ana that I didn't forget about them either - I just wanted to be sure you understand, when there's no package from me on Christmas, that -

She sucked in an angry breath and bit her lip so hard it hurt, determined she would not start blubbering again. 

__

- that I haven't forgotten you, and I do care, very, very much.

I wish you were here. 

***

Willow stared up at the canopy over her head, thoughts whirling. Dinner in the Great Hall had been unreal; the ceiling that looked like a slightly cloudy winter night sky, the magically appearing food, the Charms professor who she was fairly sure wasn't human. 

__

Being introduced to hundreds of teenagers as 'Professor Rosenberg'. 

And it's really freakin' cold in here. 

Well, duh it's cold. It's Scotland in November. Also, dungeons of medieval castles - not known for their ability to retain heat. 

Would probably help if I had some remotely appropriate clothing. Oh, I have lots of socks, though. Maybe I could sew them together into a nightgown or something. 

Note to self: packing while smashed *bad*. 

Not that that's going to be an issue ever, ever EVER again. Because I will not be getting smashed again. Well, maybe in the normal alcohol-consumption way. Or not. No, that's bad too. No drunkenness or magic-induced highs or . . or coffee. No caffeine. Or chocolate. 

And tomorrow you really must go shopping for some hair shirts. Get a grip already! 

I really want to not mess this up. 

Things are going to be different this time. Willow version 2.0. New and improved. Much more user-friendly without the power-mad addict glitch the last code had. 

Assuming the glitch is in the code, and not a hardware problem.

Wow, am I a geek.

But . . what if it is just me? What if there's just something wrong with me that means I'm gonna screw up everything I touch no matter how hard I try? 

She rolled over, picking morosely at a loose thread on the comforter. 

__

I really miss Xander right now. 

And Tara. 

And Amy-the-rat. Does that make me a completely horrible and slightly insane sort of person that I miss her as a rat and not as a human being? 

But she made all these comforting little ratty noises while she was up at night doing whatever it is rats do and this room is really way too quiet now and hearing her moving around always helped me sleep. Like, it's okay, 'cause there's another living being here. Amy the rat just going on about her nightly ratty business. The world is moving on, no matter what happened during the day. It was official it'll-be-okay noise. 

And I'm across a whole continent and an ocean from everybody I know and I broke Dawn's arm and I pulled Buffy out of heaven and I messed with Tara's mind and it's very cold and I think I might never get to go to sleep with her holding me again and that's just making me feel like throwing up and I really don't know that things will be okay. I think things are really not okay right now. 

I shouldn't be thinking like that. Things are going to be . . things. The world is gonna keep on turning and the sun's gonna come up tomorrow and I'm gonna have to get out of this bed and make with the going to classes whether it's okay or not.

I've got people giving me a chance, here. Trusting me. 

How'd that happen so fast? How do I already have responsibilities here?

Tara, baby, I need you. I need you so bad right now. 

Tell me a bedtime story . . I can't fall asleep . . 

I really have to fall asleep. I need to be awake tomorrow. Need to pay attention in all the other professors - oh god, I really just thought 'other professors', I am a professor, oh god, do not hyperventilate, no hyperventilating now, because that will not help you fall asleep now so you can be awake tomorrow in their classes. 

Well, at least one of them will be that Severus guy's class. And he wasn't so bad. We handled the poisonous snakes thing and the obnoxious wizard police together. I think we sorta bonded, in the way that you do when you're trying to keep a bunch of people from getting dead. So, one class I don't need to be nervous about. 

Though all the other professors were kind of avoiding him at dinner. Weird. Maybe he's the faculty outcast guy or something. Which would be handy because if they've already got an outcast then it makes it less likely that the outcast will be me. 

And he sorta reminded me of Oz. That can only be of the good.

Unless it's because he's a werewolf. 

But I don't think so. 

Ugh, I am still not sleeping. 

***

"Hey," Fred Weasley whispered, pulling off his borrowed invisibility cloak and perching on the edge of Angelina's bed. She didn't answer, of course. Her features were obscured in the dimness of the otherwise empty hospital wing, just the faintest hint of moonlight reflecting off of cheekbones and forehead and soft-looking lips. 

"Couldn't sleep," he explained himself with a shrug. "Dumbledore'll kill me if I get caught again, after he told me it'd be no problem s'long as I just asked for a pass, but, well, McGonagall's not likely to respond to being woken at three in the morning by giving me a hall pass, now is she? So I took Harry's cloak to get here, and I'll have to leave before Madam Pomphrey wakes up." He paused a beat. "Or Harry, for that matter."

The only sound was her steady breathing, and the soft creaking of the bed as Fred shifted his weight, getting more comfortable. 

"Gives us about two hours, I figure," he said, shrugging again as if mildly embarrassed. "So I'm just gonna sit here, and . . well, if I fall asleep and you wake up, just kick me."

He settled down across the foot of her bed, head propped up on one elbow, watching her face and waiting, the room around them still and dark. 

TBC . . 

***

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep. 

- Robert Frost


	9. Things Will Be Things

Title: Things Will Be . . Things (9/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: There's a rule about first days back to school: they suck. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

***

__

This is not happening. 

Hermione ripped a brush through her hair with one hand, while the other frantically shuffled stacks of parchment on her desk, and when those revealed nothing, spun a stack of books roughly around so she could see the titles. _Theories in Defensive Magic, An Abridged History of Interspecies Conflict in Medieval Bavaria, The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 5, and - ye gads, I still have that thing? - Gadding with Ghouls. _

Oh, this is *so* not happening. 

Hermione scampered across the chilly room in stocking-clad feet, wearing her school skirt and a bra, and threw the bedspread away from one side of the bed. Crookshanks, who had been lounging in the tangle of sheets, jumped down with an indignant yowl. Hermione ignored him, quickly sticking her head under the bed, pulling out chests of folded summer clothes, photo albums and piles upon piles of books. She examined each likely-looking book spine hastily, discarding one after the other. 

__

So, *so* not happening . . not this morning . . 

She gave up on the under-bed stash and pulled her head back out into the room, bumping her skull on the bed-frame and tossing her hair forward over her forehead in the process. With a disgusted near-screech, she threw her hair back into place. She attempted to pull the brush through it one more time - it got stuck halfway down. 

Hermione yanked the brush out of the tangled mass of hair and threw it across the room. Something fell with a large thump, and another disgusted exclamation from the cat. Hermione ignored it, moving on to her bureau drawers, pulling out yet more books. 

__

What on earth possesses wizarding publishers to bind all of their books - which are all of nearly identical thickness - in the same nearly-identical dark leather? Honestly, have they no consideration for their readers? How is one supposed to tell them apart at a glance when one's in a rush and tired because it's only - she glanced at her muggle watch - _almost eight o'clock already and oh this is *not* happening . . _

Something book-shaped wrapped in cloth caught her attention at the bottom of a drawer; she jerked the binding off. _Why on earth would I have a book wrapped up in canvas anyway? Idiotic thing to do! _

She drew her hand back with a startled yelp as 'The Monster Book of Monsters' lunged for her. It caught the end of her thumb momentarily before she managed to shake it off. Swearing in both English and a few random snatches of Bulgarian, she tried to slam the drawer shut on the book whilst sucking at her bleeding thumb. It got caught half-way out. _Good enough for now. _She stomped to her door, flung it open, and stuck her head out into the Gryffindor prefects' lounge. 

"Have you seen my -" Hermione cut off when Dean Thomas made a strangled sort of choking sound and whipped around the other way as if he'd seen a basilisk. Katie Bell, the seventh year prefect, sniggered and turned faintly pink.

"What?" Hermione demanded crossly. 

"Go look in the mirror," Katie suggested delicately, smirking. Hermione put her hands on her hips, frowning at the older girl. 

"Well I know my hair's a mess, but that's -" she stopped abruptly. Her knuckles, sitting on her hips, were feeling the waistband of her skirt, and . . _bare skin. That shouldn't be bare skin. That ought to be shirt. _

Except I'm not wearing one.

Oh bloody hell and damn it! 

With as much dignity as she could, she turned back to her room and shut the door. 

Something heavy thumped rapidly across her toes, making her jump and shriek; it was followed immediately by an orange blur. The orange blur and the unknown toe-bruising creature paused across the room and resolved into Crookshanks and the Monster Book of Monsters, which had evidently escaped the drawer, and was now backed into a corner, snapping at the hissing cat. 

__

This is a nightmare. It's really the only explanation. This is a nightmare, and I will wake up shortly and won't have overslept and all my things will be exactly where I remember leaving them and I won't be late to pick up the new professor and begin showing her around.

And none of my former textbooks will be trying to eat my cat. 

This is just simply not happening. 

Hermione grabbed her school shirt and robes off of her chair, throwing them on and buttoning the shirt while she scanned the room, biting her lip, trying to think were she'd be if she were a misplaced book. 

__

Well, only one option left, really, she decided, surveying the ransacked mess that had been a neat, orderly example of a prefects' dorm just minutes before. She picked up her wand from the desk. 

__

This is really not a good idea. I just know this is not a good idea. 

But it's five minutes past eight and I should already be on my way to breakfast, with the new professor, pointing out the more historically significant paintings along the way. 

The Monster Book of Monsters darted out of its corner, narrowly missing a swipe of Crookshanks' claws; the book and the cat both streaked towards the bed and proceeded to claw their way up the draperies. 

"Accio Potions Text!" Hermione pronounced clearly, holding her wand aloft and wincing at the sounds of shredding fabric, tearing paper and yowling cat coming from atop the canopy bed. 

No further sound or motion disturbed the room. Hermione lowered her wand with a utterly frustrated, puzzled frown. 

Then she heard the yelping and swearing coming from the hallway, then the prefects' lounge. A moment later, something thudded heavily against her closed door. 

"Are you tryin' to kill me?!" Dean Thomas's outraged voice demanded from the other side of the door. "First you damned near give me a heart attack, flashing us all like that, then your bloody frickin' boulder of a potions book comes flyin' at my head!" 

Hermione shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

__

Not happening. Just really, really not happening. 

***

"Weasley, hang on a moment!" a voice called as Ginny meandered out of the great hall, checking over her Divination essay one last time. She turned, and saw that the voice belonged to Pansy Parkison, flanked on either side by Claudette Delacroix and Jenna Page, two Slytherin girls in Ginny's year. They were all smirking conspiratorially.

"I have to get all the way up to Divination," Ginny tried to excuse herself. _And why don't I just tell them to go bugger off? It's not like they'd ever actually want to spend time with Ginny the freak. _

"Well, we do too, silly," said Claudette in her rather nasal voice, smiling indulgently at Ginny as if they were best buddies and she had never hexed Ginny's cauldron to overflow continuously when they were both in second year. "We'll just walk together." Claudette fell in to step with Ginny to her left, while Pansy took the right, hooking her arm around Ginny's elbow, effectively preventing her escape. Jenna trailed behind, trying to smother giggles. 

"So we were wondering," Pansy said in the same disgustingly familiar tone, "about the new professor."

"What about her?" Ginny asked carefully. _There's got to be a way to just not get into these situations. _

"Well, you're not *related* to her, are you?" Claudette asked. Jenna tittered. Pansy raised a speculative eyebrow, leaning in conspiratorially. 

"You can tell us," she whispered near Ginny's ear. Ginny tried not to flinch, and succeeded in merely grimacing. 

"No," she said flatly. "Why should I be?"

"Well, that red hair," Jenna piped in.

"Both your parents have read hair, don't they? And all your brothers," Claudette explained. 

__

So does half of Ireland and a good portion of Scotland, morons. But don't let that stop you from finding a way to humiliate me about it. 

"It couldn't be her brothers, *silly*," Pansy scoffed in a mockingly good-natured tone. "She hasn't got any old enough."

__

Old enough? Huh?

"Oh, I guess you're right," Claudette nodded, scrunching up her doll-like face and frowning in obviously feigned consideration. 

__

Perhaps you shouldn't even try to *look* like you're thinking, *dear*, Ginny thought. _You just might strain something. _

But . . old enough . . huh?

"So she's got to be her father's, then," Jenna choked out between snickers. _Good lord, she's not only a malicious little bitch, she's also a pathetic, incompetent example of a malicious little bitch. Laugh *after* the punch line, lack-brain. _

And my father's what? Who? 

"Does your mother know?" Pansy whispered, sounding scandalized. 

__

Oh.

Ginny flushed scarlet. "The new professor isn't - she's not my father's - anything. He hasn't got any - I mean, he wouldn't -" _*Why* do I have to get incoherent over things like this? They're pathetic. So why are they laughing and I'm blushing? _

They're stupid, spoiled little brats who have nothing better to do than make other people miserable and they haven't the slightest clue about my father or my family or anything, they'd all die if they had to deal with one tenth of the real problems I've had, and honestly, I think I could pound Pansy's simpering, painted face into the ground if she ever really started with me, so why, exactly, am I * stuttering*? 

Pansy Parkinson and her little lackeys don't rate stuttering from the girl who survived being possessed by Tom Riddle. 

But here I am, turning all purple. 

"Oh well," Pansy said with a little shrug. "We were just wondering."

"We didn't *really* think so," Claudette added. Jenna was incoherent with giggles. 

"After all, she *is* rather too pretty to be from *your* family," Pansy's tone was deliberately even, as if to say she wasn't really being *mean*, just stating a fact. 

__

Pathetic little bitch. Ginny stared hard at the floor, willing herself not to loose her temper and create a scene that would only spawn more rumors about crazy Ginny Weasley. 

"Best keep her far away from *your* father then, eh, Parkinson?" a new, male voice commented from behind them. 

Pansy swirled indignantly towards the voice, gaping when she saw who it was. 

"Shut your mouth or get on your knees, Parkinson," Draco Malfoy sneered at the Slytherin girl, stomping past the group of them, giving Pansy no time to respond. She had turned a deep tomato red that didn't go at all with her mauve lipstick, and looked like she just might cry. Claudette's already overly large eyes were positively bulging, making her look like a stunned fish. Jenna had her fist stuffed into her mouth, trying to stifle yet more scandalized laughter. Pansy gave her a venomous glare, and she hiccuped. 

Ginny just stared after Draco, watching his thin, uncharacteristically hunched-shouldered form disappear down a stairwell towards the dungeon.

__

Malfoy just insulted Parkinson?

And . . I think . . he was sort of defending me. 

***

__

What in the bloody fucking hell did you go and do that for? 

Draco slammed his books down on the Potions lab table, causing Crabbe's cauldron to bounce out of its stand and clatter noisily to the floor. Crabbe glanced at him nervously, frowning a little, obviously trying to determine if Draco had done that intentionally and if he was in danger of getting hexed for retrieving his cauldron. 

Draco just ignored him, crossing his arms over his books, putting his head down and sulking. Other students were filtering slowly into the room in small groups; he saw the new professor - _the total dish of a new professor, now she's not looking quite so fresh out of the hospital wing - _come in with Potter, Granger and Weasley, and grimaced. _Oh, bloody wonderful, another sap for the Gryffindors. Just what this school needed. _

Which is all the more reason why it was bloody stupid to go offending one of the few people who actually doesn't hate you. 

Of course, it was Pansy. I'm not sure she actually qualifies as "people". 

But her father does. Her father who's going to write to my father and complain about how I'm picking on his dear little baby girl . . 

Though maybe she won't really want to repeat what I said to her father. Possible.

Then again, it's Pansy. If she had anything resembling shame, I would have gotten bored of her much sooner. 

But still, it was stupid. 

Professor Snape had crossed the classroom to greet Professor Rosenberg - Draco was surprised to see that they seemed to be getting along very well, the little red-head even giving Snape a rather cheeky smile. _Is she *flirting* with him? Eugh! Be still my heaving stomach! _

Crabbe was still watching him warily, his cauldron still wobbling from side to side on the floor in front of the table. 

"Oh, will you go pick up your cauldron, you great tub of guts?" Draco snapped. Crabbe darted hastily around the table to comply, which was really quite an amusing sight, consider how very poorly built Crabbe was for *darting*. 

__

Why is it that everybody either hates me or is petrified of me or both? 

Except Weasley the youngest. 

Who I was most certainly not defending. Has nothing whatsoever to do with her. Just wanted to get Pansy's knickers in a twist is all - assuming she was wearing any. 

Nothing whatsoever to do with the little Weasel-girl or the kinda cute little gobsmacked look she got on her face . . 

Oh ye gads, I did NOT just think the Weasel chit was cute. She's got no boobs. And she wears ratty old robes that aren't even girls' robes because they're handed down from her brothers, and she's got hair the color of tomato soup. And freckles. Even on her lips. 

When the hell did I notice Weasel-girl has freckles on her lips?

Oh hell. This is it. Life, the universe, and everything are all officially fucking with my mind. There's no way in hell I'm noticing Weasel-girl's lips. 

Snape had returned to his desk, and Granger was now introducing Professor Rosenberg to several of the Gryffindors. Neville Longbottom tried to shake her hand with his wand still in his, and when he realized this, flushed scarlet and proceeded to drop his wand into Granger's cauldron. Being the little over-achiever that she was, Granger had already begun following the directions on the board, piling up the dry ingredients for the day's potion in undoubtedly neat and precise layers at the base of her cauldron. Longbottom's wand had sent powdered dragon scale, dried essence of devil's snare and shredded mothwing up in a cloud of dust that turned a pale violet and then proceeded to burst into neon green flames. 

The new professor jumped back with a little meeping sound like a startled cat, while Granger exclaimed, "Oh, *Neville!*" in an exasperated tone. 

Draco smirked, and thought he really ought to make some sort of biting comment, but didn't feel moved to make the effort. 

"Mr. Longbottom, that will be five points from Gryffindor for your carelessness," Snape drawled from the front of the classroom. "Seeing as class has not even begun and you've already managed to set something on fire, perhaps it would be best if you moved your seat away from our new faculty member. I don't think it would be a particularly educational experience for her to be incinerated due to your blundering."

There were giggles from the Slytherin side of the classroom, and a slightly hurt and rather annoyed look from the new professor, directed at Snape. 

__

Oh well, at least some things in the universe are constant. 

***

"And how are you enjoying your first day of classes?" Snape inquired, sliding into the seat beside Willow at the staff table with his characteristic gothic grace. 

__

The way he moves and the whole deep-dark voice thingie would be way sexy if he weren't such a big mean jerk-person. 

Willow popped a devilled egg into her mouth and stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice his existence. 

__

And why is he sitting with me?

Just because I sat with him last night when he was the only person I knew here and I hadn't seen him teach yet and I didn't know he was a total poop-head who bullies little kids and totally kisses the pampered behinds of the little Cordelia-clones in Slytherin - well, it doesn't mean I want to sit with him for ever and ever! 

Of course, I did sit in the same seat. Maybe he always sits here. I should have sat somewhere else. 

He was watching her; she could feel his gaze even while she refused to meet it. 

__

And there's no reason to go feeling all disappointed just because he's a crappy teacher and a big mean poop-head jerk, even if he does seem really smart and even if the whole snake-venom experience did feel kinda bonding . . so the first person you met here was a jackass. There are tons of other people here. 

You'll fit in just fine without him. No, you'll fit in better without him. All the other teachers snub him, remember?

So, now, you can snub him too, and you'll have something else to fit in . . about. Or with. Or whatever the correct preposition is to end that thought even though you're not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition and god somebody shoot me I am such a geek, and why do I feel like evil 10th grade Cordelia for just thinking I'll fit in better for snubbing somebody?

It's not like I'm snubbing him because his hair's all greasy or something. Though it is. He's got greasy, mean, jerky poop-head hair. 

And I almost *liked* him.

"Is Miss Granger proving a sufficient guide?" Snape attempted conversation again. "If not, I'm sure one of my -"

"She's wonderful!" Willow snapped, and winced at her own excess enthusiasm. "I mean, yes. She's fine. Good." She speared a forkful of salad with unnecessary vigor and stuffed her mouth. _Big mean making-me-snappy poop-head jerk. _

"I see," Snape responded coldly, and there was a wealth of unspoken understanding in the words. "Perhaps you should see Albus about moving your quarters closer to Gryffindor tower, Professor Rosenberg. You're going to fit in here just splendidly." 

There was not even the faintest trace of sarcasm in his tone, but Willow had the distinct feeling she'd just been insulted. 

"I'm sorry you didn't get to see a better example of an herbology lesson," said a brisk but cheery voice from her right; Willow turned to see that Professor Sprout - _what is her first name, really ought to remember that - _had taken the other seat beside her, and was giving her a faintly apologetic shrug and a smile. "I just thought a few words needed saying, about the incident on Saturday, and - well, I didn't want to be too hard on them today."

__

None of the professors did - oh, wait, except the big mean jerk-person poop-head. 

And you'd think a teacher would go out of his way to be nice to a kid who's already stuck with a name like 'Longbottom.' I mean, hello, talk about the making elementary school many interesting kinds of hell. 

"It's no big," Willow assured the other woman. "It was still very interesting."

"Everything should be back to normal by next week, I'd expect," Professor Sprout went on, digging into an enormous salad with great relish. "Any ideas yet for your own class, dear?"

"Well, a few," Willow hedged. "Some thoughts. Ideas. A little short of plans, yet, but .. there are ideas." _Translation: not a single bloody clue. _

"Oh, that's good," Professor Sprout mumbled around a mouthful of arugala and spinach. "Let me know if you need any help with your lesson plans. I remember they were the absolute *worst* thing about my first year teaching - once you get up there in front of the class, it's all just showing them how it's done, but on paper? Dreadful," Sprout opined with a shudder.

"Right," Willow agreed. _I'm supposed to submit lesson plans? Ack!_

And getting up in front of a class is the easy part, right - excepting the whole mind-numbing stage fright issue. 

"Don't you think so, Severus?" Sprout inquired, leaning around Willow, taking a delicate bite of a cucumber slice she had speared on her fork, and arching an eyebrow. She cast an almost conspiratorial little glance at Willow as she did so. 

__

I don't get it, Willow thought nervously. 

Snape grunted something unintelligible. 

Sprout giggled. 

"Don't mind Severus," Sprout whispered, leaning in towards Willow's ear. Up close the woman smelled strongly and pleasantly of herbs and earth, but Willow still felt vaguely unnerved by the situation, despite how very harmless the pudgy little woman seemed. "You're the first person I've ever seen him attempt to engage in *table conversation,*" Sprout paused and snickered, as if the very idea of Snape being social was a mildly naughty joke. "Really, it's most irregular. I'm sure if you just ignore him, he'll revert back to form and leave you alone."

Willow wasn't sure if the woman had meant to be overheard or not, but her whispering wasn't very whispery. Everyone for three seats in either direction must have heard the comment, including Snape, who sat there impassively, eating corned beef hash. 

Willow gave a forced little giggle and tried to ignore the guilty pang in her gut as she did so. 

__

He deserves it. 

I'm sure if he were nice to people, then people would be nice to him.

Like they were to you in school? whispered a voice in her subconscious.

__

This isn't high school! she insisted to herself. _Or, well, it is - but he's a teacher! And . . and he's icky. I don't want to feel all sorry for him while I'm being all pissed at him. If I wanna feel sorry for anybody I should feel sorry for that poor Longbottom kid he was sneering and jeering at all through potions class. If Severus Snape is all pathetic and friendless, well, it's just his own big mean poop-headed jerk-person fault! _

But I still think I like being the snubbed one better than I like doing the snubbing. 

It's nice to have one's own patch of moral high ground. Like an animal that likes to have its own territory, as opposed to an animal that likes to have a big old herd around. I liked my solitary top-of-the-moral-food-chain niche.

But I suppose I should take any niche I can get right now. And moral high-ground? Not so much my natural habitat anymore.

And could I possibly be any more of a geek if I tried? 

"Excuse me, Professor Rosenberg?" a tentative voice came from over her shoulder. Hermione Granger was waiting, what looked like ten pounds of books clutched to her chest. 

"Is it time to go already?" Willow asked. 

"Defense Against the Dark Arts is all the way down in the dungeons," Hermione said apologetically. "Of course, if you wanted a longer lunch, you could always follow Colin and Ginny to Muggle Studies -"

"Nah, I'll stick with you," Willow said, silently grateful for a chance to flee the staff table. "Defense Against the Dark Arts sounds like my kinda stuff."

***

Snape didn't look up as Willow left the table, staring pointedly into his plate of hash. 

__

Well, what did you expect? 

She's exactly the sort of insecure, babbling little do-gooder who'd go all misty-eyed and indignant because you so much as raised your voice to an incompetent like Longbottom. Just the sort to think everyone should be treated *nicely* and *fairly* even if they are a hazard to themselves and others. 

You had no earthly reason to expect her to be otherwise. If she'd been a student - which she's almost young enough to be - she'd have been a bloody Gryffindor for sure. 

Should have known that, with all that bloody stumbling about half-delirious still trying to be the hero, back at the Three Broomsticks. 

Just because she's had a taste of the dark doesn't mean she's necessarily learned a damned thing from it. Some people are - as evidenced by Longbottom - immune to even the most bluntly presented and obvious of lessons. 

So, congratulations. You understand her. She's just like the bloody sodding rest of them. Mystery solved, life can now go on as usual.

Of course, there is no life as usual that doesn't involve spying for Dumbledore, leading a double existence - which is probably all that interested you in her in the first place. She was a convenient distraction. 

A convenient distraction who babbles about Hellmouths and curses out Aurors and has the most positively fascinating little lips . . 

And well, there's another thing. She's a pretty young woman. And no pretty young woman possessed of even the tiniest sliver of sanity would want to be even remotely associated with you. 

So really, if you've been rejected as a foul-tempered git, it's a mercy. It saves you the humiliation of being rejected as a greasy-haired, beak-nosed, cradle-robbing old pervert, you pillock. 

And besides, you detest babblers anyway. 

TBC . . 

__


	10. Available Means

Title: Available Means (10/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Narcissa's doing something desperate, Willow's forced to prove a point, and Snape . . well, we're not sure what he's doing yet. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

Thanks muchly to Erin for her continued input and support! 

***

Narcissa crept down the stairs, as silent as she could make herself without use of a charm. There were no charms on her at all. She was distractingly aware of her whisper-fine hair clinging to her face, of her sweating, of the goosebumps on her skin - things she never felt unless she was coming down off a high and was too delirious or too ill or just too recently unconscious to have renewed the dozens of personal charms that usually clung to her. She had studiously avoided so much as passing by any reflective surface on the way down - and not only because Lucius had spelled several of the mirrors to record what they reflected. She had the disturbing suspicion that, without her carefully manufactured perfection, she was going to look either absurdly young or frighteningly old, and she didn't want to know about either. 

But there could be no charms. No wards against detection. Even her wand was left upstairs. The faintest hint of magic, even the simple spell that kept her hair sleeked back out of her eyes, would set off the complex series of wards Lucius had set on this staircase. She could feel them tingling unpleasantly over her skin, rather like standing just out of range of a lightning strike. 

In front of her, one of the wards solidified into a shimmering wall of orange haze. Where the haze touched stone on either side of the stairs it sizzled and popped, and Narcissa felt her face flush with sudden heat - another unfamiliar bodily response, usually magically repressed. It wouldn't do for Malfoy's wife to go red in the face in the heated crush a high society party, after all. So, therefore, she didn't. She felt heat, still, but in a way that was merely knowing it was there - the actual sensation of blood rushing to her cheeks without emotional impetus was so unnerving she almost dropped the scrap of paper clutched in her shaking hands. 

__

Orange, heat, flame . . which one, which one . . what if it's one she never saw . . 

The wards were set to activate at random, so that the path to the dungeons was never the same twice. Narcissa had no idea how many possible obstacles there were; Lucius had shown her a few of his more vicious new additions in rare moments of good humor, but not all of them. And there were the ones set down by his father. And his father's father. And his father before him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of different traps devised and perfected over generations to insure no one not a Malfoy could ever enter this dungeon uninvited. 

__

And never mind the priests' words or the changing of records, I am not a Malfoy. I married a Malfoy, I mothered a Malfoy, but no one not born a Malfoy will ever be more than a possession. 

Of course, even Malfoys have their blind spots, she thought with a sense of malicious triumph, finally recognizing the notation on the scrap of paper that matched the wall of vaporized flame before her. 

"_Satio_," she whispered, her voice sounding dusty and brittle with lack of use. She'd been on these stairs for what felt like hours. _Weeks. Years. _

The orange haze seemed to solidify, gathering inward, darkening into a black powder hanging in the air, before turning to smoke and vanishing in an unseen, unfelt breeze. _How very impressive. I bet his guests like that one. _

But how predictable. Not quench the fire, but satisfy it. Let it burn to ash. How very *Malfoy*. 

That, of course, would also be to impress the guests . . 

Narcissa stepped cautiously over the place where the ward had been, half expecting the stone to burn her through the thin soles of her slippers, but it felt cool, indistinguishable from the rest of the narrow, twisting stair. She tucked the scrap of paper into her bodice.

__

I must be nearly there. I must. 

She didn't say how long it was. And dark, and dank, and like the walls will close in and swallow you alive. 

Of course, she takes the form of a mouse. Perhaps this is comfort for her - to be in some dark, secret place. 

Narcissa still didn't really understand how her spy had managed to gain access to this passageway. Secreting herself away in some pocket of a dark robe, often worn and infrequently inspected, was nothing the creature hadn't done before, but her transformed state should have set off the wards. It should have set off the wards on Lucius' *rooms*, never mind this stair. 

The woman had only told her, with an expression as close to pride as Narcissa had ever seen from her, that the Animagus transformation was only magic if one had to learn it. 

__

Whatever *that* meant. And the woman's muggleborn, anyhow - what does she know about the nature of magic?

But then, what do I know? I know that the professor who taught Advanced Magical Theory didn't take attendance. And now, suddenly, its another thing I should have known would be important. 

I don't care, really, so long as it gets me down and back up again alive. I don't care what made her think to do this, to be watching this stair for years when I never asked her to. I don't care if she can transform because her great-grandfather actually boffed a field mouse. It's - 

- no, it's not irrelevant. You never, never fucking learn. Nothing is irrelevant. It's a detail, a detail out of your control. It's all in the details, all in the little things that slip, that you don't notice . . that's where it all goes to hell.

A lesson Lucius will soon be learning, and won't soon be forgetting, she thought grimly, coming around a bend and spotting, at long last, a heavy wooden door. _If I can just stay sane, hold myself together for just a little while. _

Just long enough to send them all to hell, where they can't touch my son. 

She brushed a feathery strand of hair off of her lips, pulling the piece of paper out of her dress and turning it over, glancing between the real door and the elaborate, painstakingly detailed sketch of it she held. 

__

I could never do that, she thought suddenly. _I can't draw at all. I could never have been an Animagus, natural or magical or otherwise, I never gave a fig for transformation. I could never have remembered all those wards, all those passwords, kept them locked in my little mousy brain until I could write them down. My memory is all cobwebs and moth holes . . _

I can't think of a single thing I'm good for. No, not true. Looking pretty. Fucking. 

And Draco. Think of Draco. You've got to find a way to be good for more than that, for him. 

She had to crumple the paper slightly in her left hand because she needed it to hold her right wrist, or her right hand would be shaking too much to draw the complicated glyph that unlocked the door. 

__

This is just the sort of thing I don't do. Cissy doesn't do rituals and dank cellars, she's just there for the party. 

For the fucking. For the being a perfect little wife. 

Even braced, her hand still trembled faintly. 

__

Oh fucking hell, this has to work, I don't even know what happens to me right now if it doesn't, but I know what happens to Draco, a month from now, or a year, or five years . . 

The door shuddered and creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room full of strange shadows, shapes that moved on the wall in the illumination of the never-dying candles. Expelling a dizzying breath, Narcissa stepped inside.

__

A demon's momento box, was the first thought that popped into her slightly addled brain. The objects themselves neither frightened nor disgusted her - _of course Lucius keeps tools for torture, and human body parts in jars - _but the tangible reminder of just what her husband was capable of doing shook her. 

__

Years since he used the Crutiatus . . Crutiatus doesn't leave marks, not like cutting off fingers, but I suppose leaving a mark doesn't matter if the mark is just on a corpse to be tossed from the cliffs, and he would, he would kill me for this. 

Which is, I suppose, perfectly fair. Death would be merciful compared to what's awaiting him. Because of me.

She couldn't quite identify the emotion that thought stirred; it wasn't exactly guilt at the thought of betraying him, and it wasn't precisely fear of him either. It was more a nauseating sense of her own power, and a gut-level rejection of it. _Cissy doesn't do this sort of thing. _

It's why I married you, you know, Lucius drawled in her memory, too low to be heard by anyone but her, hand clenched firmly around her elbow at some glittering Hogwarts fundraising event. His remembered self smiled pleasantly at someone in the crowd. _Because you do *this* so very well - just follow along. You're a whore in every fiber of your being. Oh, I know what they say behind my back, about a Malfoy settling for seconds. Idiots. They didn't see what a prize you were, my dear. It's rare to find someone who can be owned so completely, with so little effort. Smile, dear, here comes that imbecile Fudge. _

Narcissa tried to blank her mind of everything but what she had to do, but it didn't work very well. _The damning thing about cranking up and smoking up and getting smashed in general is that, when you become accustomed to the stillness of it, it's hard to be still without it ever again. Just existing starts to make you nervous. _

Or maybe that's just my existence in particular. 

Her fingers felt like numb twigs rattled in a cold wind, still trembling as she took the muggle object out of the pouch at her belt. It looked strange to her, nothing like it's wizarding equivalent, though at one time the two items - wizarding and muggle - were very similar in design. _Of course, it was a wizard invented it first, but then the muggles took it and improved upon it. Made it their own. Made it something that generations upon generations of Malfoys would never even think to guard against. _

Narcissa raised the camera to eye level and pointed it at a jar containing several human thumbs, floating in a clear liquid. She pressed the button on the right, as the Animagus who stole it for her had instructed her to do.

A blinding flash of light sent the room into stark relief for a heart-stopping moment. Narcissa nearly dropped the Polaroid camera, her heart thundering in her ears. But nothing happened; no alarms sounded, no wards closed down around her.

With a little mechanical whir, it shot a flat slip of film out one end. _That's good. That's what it's supposed to do. I think. Why is it all dark? Was it like that when she showed me? _

As she watched, the image rose slowly out of the blackness, clearly illuminated. In the unflinching glare of the camera's flash, the very prosaic pickling jar and its obscene contexts made Narcissa briefly ashamed. 

__

I have thumbs. I wouldn't want my thumbs in a jar. Not really a difficult concept, is it? Not when you bother to think at all. 

But I didn't bother to think, I don't like to think, I hate being here in this dank place making these choices and . . and I don't know who else would have had me. 

I suppose it would have been better, really, if no one had. I could have been a lonely spinster with a dozen cats who sits up knitting, alone . . that's so much less petrifying a thought when you're alone in a dungeon full of severed limbs and the things that severed them than it is when you're a fifth year who's parents barely know she's alive and who just wants to make sure of it . . just wants to feel something, just wants someone to notice her, just to make positively sure that she's real . . 

. . and oddly enough, I'm not convinced. This doesn't feel real at all. 

But it is, she told herself firmly. _You can flay your tardy conscience bloody later. Now, there are things to be done, for Draco, who is real._

Who couldn't have existed if you hadn't fucked up quite so badly. 

And I don't know what that means. I'm not meant to know what things mean. 

This is going to kill me, I think. I'm going to die in some dank hole somewhere because of this. 

Determined but shaking, she turned the Polaroid towards the next jar. 

***

__

I could get used to this way too easily. 

"Now, vampires are a required aspect of the Ministry-approved curriculum, and may be covered on your OWLs, so pay attention here," Professor Winston Reed lectured, pacing at the front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, hands clasped behind his back. "I realize this all may seem very theoretical to you, very detached from your immediate lives, but rest assured, the results of your OWLs will have a very great and immediate impact indeed." 

He was skeletally thin, with a hair of a dusty brown color that insisted on falling over his wire-rimmed glasses. Trying to stave off boredom induced catatonia, Willow had started keeping a running tally of how many times he tried to fix it. It was six times for today's class, 47 in the past week. 

__

Okay, well, maybe not *this*.

But mind-suckingly dull classes aside, the whole school thing, it's . . well, it's really comfortable. 

From the student end of it, anyway.

The teaching, on the other hand - still a little intimidating. Two weeks here, and it's still a little - okay, still *way* intimidating. 

Note to self - do not pace in front of class. Looks dumb, read her notes from the last half-hour. Beside her, Hermione was tapping her quill impatiently. Just past Hermione, Ron was staring straight ahead with a glazed look in his eye. Willow couldn't quite see what Harry was doing, but he was writing feverishly. _Which means he cannot possibly be taking notes on the same lecture I'm listening to here . . _

I could get way too used to them, too, in a not-teacher way. They're good kids. They're entirely too Scooby-like. 

I'm gonna have to teach eventually and it's gonna be awkward if I'm best buddies with my students. 

Though, I was sort of friends with Ms. Calendar . . and granted, there was the whole ulterior motives and ancient gypsy plots part of that, but still . . she wouldn't be a bad teacher to be like . . 

Then again, I kinda already tried that, and granted, Snyder forcing me to pass everyone probably didn't add to the experience, but I think I failed miserably. Didn't get too much respect in that class. 

Was that because I was a high-schooler trying to act like a teacher? Or because I was a teacher still trying to fit in with the students? Age, or attitude?

That sounds like a seminar. 

Except the part where it wouldn't suck and be useless, like all the teaching seminars I took in college seem to have been.

Ugh, I have no clue how to do this. 

"Now, I trust you all covered the basics on vampires in 3rd year? Their physiology and such?" Reed prompted the class, pausing momentarily. There was a vague, classroom-wide mumble of assent. "Splendid! We'll move right along to their behaviors, then." There was a faint snore from the Gryffindor side of the class. 

__

Then again, neither does he, and they haven't fired him yet.

Though Ron says his dad says Reed's some sort of dupe for this 'Ministry of Magic' that Dumbledore evidently pissed off. And it sounds sort of like what would happen if you stuck the CIA and the IRS in a blender and added in a touch of Supreme Court. 

The Ministry, that is. 

Reed sounds sort of like what would happen if you stuck Wesley and a bunch of sleeping pills in a blender. And added a shot of even-more-boring-as-hell. 

"Vampires are very territorial, habit-bound creatures," Reed lectured. 

__

They are?

"Therefore, it is possible to predict where one is most likely to encounter them - and thus, to avoid such places and the dangers they present. Vampires frequently nest - now write that term down, it may be on your OWLS - in graveyards, mausoleums, and other suchlike places."

"And nightclubs," Willow commented absent-mindedly, jotting down _alternatives to long, boring lecture - group discussion? field trips?_

For later - ask Dumbledore if fieldtrips allowed. 

"Pardon?" Reed asked, pausing mid-pace. 

"Nightclubs," Willow repeated, glancing up from her notes. "You know, crowded places, there's dancing and booze? Do wizards have those?" Someone on the Slytherin side of the room snickered. 

"Of course," Reed answered, primly. "But, what about them?" 

"Vampires?" Willow prompted. 

Reed stared blankly. 

Hermione made a soft tsking sound at Willow's side and, the redhead was happy to note, scribbled down 'nightclubs' on her own list of places frequented by vampires. 

"You were lecturing about vampires, and where they hang out," Willow reminded him. 

"I'm aware of that, Miss - I mean, Professor Rosenberg," Reed gritted out between obviously clenched teeth. "But what does that have to do with night clubs?" Willow had to squelch the impulse to roll her eyes and sigh. Loudly. _Do you actually have two clues to rub together, Mister-I-mean-Professor Reed? _

"I was just saying, that in my experience, vampires tend to hunt at nightclubs," Willow explained in as calm and reasonable a tone as she could manage. "It makes sense, if you think about it - lots of random strangers, and those places are always roasting, so it's not that noticeable if your new buddy's skin is only room-temperature, 'cause room temperature is, like, inferno. And people going off alone together isn't going to attract attention, either. Also -"

"Thank you, Professor Rosenberg," Reed interrupted her, pressing his lips together in a brittle-looking line that Willow suspected was his attempt at a polite smile. "Now, as I was saying, vampires tend to prefer graveyards, mausoleums, dungeons, and sometimes enchanted forests."

Willow snapped her mouth shut. Hermione gave her a sympathetic look. 

"What a pillock," Ron muttered. 

__

Am I morally obligated to tell him not to talk about another professor like that?

Oh, screw that. Reed's a pillock. Whatever that is. But I'm sure he is one. 

"Now, the best way to avoid a vampire attack is, of course, to avoid such places, except in broad daylight," Reed went on. 

"Hey, we can ditch Potions," Ron whispered. "Oh, and this class, too. He *said* to avoid dungeons!"

Willow felt she really had to give him at least a glare for that, and did so; he blushed, but didn't look the least repentant. 

"If, however, you must enter a graveyard at night - or, perhaps, a nightclub -" Reed paused for dramatic effect, and Willow's head snapped up, "there are some precautions you can take."

__

He's making fun of me! I don't believe it! That scrawny, clueless little prick is making fun of me! In front of students! 

"Crosses, garlic and holy water are the recommended vampire repellants," Reed lectured, ignoring Willow's indignant stare, and turning to write those three items on the board. "Any of the above can be worn on the body, with crosses being the most easily secured around one's neck. However, for those who would be uncomfortable wearing a cross or dousing themselves with holy water from reasons of differing religious beliefs, garlic can also be easily braided in a necklace. Your homework, therefore - "

"What about the wrists?" Willow demanded. _Gonna make fun of me, huh? I'm Miss-I-mean-Professor Rosenberg, huh? We'll see about that one! _"And what about stakes?"

"Wrists?" Reed mimicked in a dismissive tone. 

"Yes, wrists," Willow repeated. "Specifically, your radial and ulnar *arteries* - you know, the things that carry lots of yummy blood?"

"Vampires have an instinctual impulse to lunge for the neck," Reed responded. 

"Well, yeah, unless you've got a big old bunch of garlic wrapped around it," Willow retorted. "Then they go for what they can get. Wrists are an easy grab, but you've also got to watch your upper forearm, inner thigh, your lower back where your kidneys are - anywhere you've got major blood supply. And what about *stakes*?"

"What *about* stakes?" Reed snapped. "Surely you aren't suggesting that 5th years should be advised to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the undead?"

"Oh, no, of course not," Willow answered with mock sweetness. "Silly me. When a vampire attacks them, they should very nicely inform the vampire that they're only 5th years, and that it should really go find some victims who are of legal age!"

"Ah, excuse me, Professors?" Hermione was timidly raising her hand. 

"Yes?" Reed answered her, rather tersely. 

"Well, vampires are killed by fire, aren't they?" Hermione asked. 

"Yep," Willow responded, at the same time Reed began to say, "We'll cover that in next -"

"Well, then wouldn't it make sense to use an incendiary charm?" Hermione finished, glancing between Reed and Willow. 

"This is *boring*," a female voice whispered loudly from the Slytherin side of the class. Willow whipped around, pinning Pansy Parkinson with a glare. 

"So is being dead," Willow snapped. "So shut up and pay attention. Five points from Slytherin."

__

Oh yikes, if I don't watch it I'm going to end up sounding like Snape!

But, boring? Oh yeah, you're gonna think it's really boring when there's a bottle shoved in your face by a demon!

"That is one method of dispatching a vampire," Reed ground out, jaw tightly clenched, "but producing an incendiary charm of sufficient strength to incinerate the vampire before it has the chance to either put the fire out or kill you out of rage is extremely difficult."

"So petrify it," Ron suggested. 

"Good thought," Willow told him, "but may or may not work on your older vampires. They can get pretty resistant to simple hexes like that. For a fledgling, though, good plan. Five points to Gryffindor for you and Hermione."

"Professor Rosenberg, if you will kindly stop giving out points to students who are interrupting my class!" Reed exploded. "Dispatching vampires is the word of trained Aurors! Not 5th year students!"

"Where I come from, *not dying* is the work of everybody with a pulse!" Willow retorted. "And they're *contributing* to your class!"

"So for your older vampires," asked a voice from the Slytherin side, which Willow identified as Draco Malfoy. _That boy Hermione and Ron and Harry can't stand. _"What for them?" 

"You *avoid them*," Reed said in a clearly exasperated tone. 

"I wasn't asking you, Nancy, so shut up," Draco said calmly. For a moment, the classroom fell into complete silence. Ron laughed briefly, then made a sort of choking sound and looked utterly horrified at himself. Hermione was frowning across the room at the Slytherin boy as if he'd just presented a puzzle she couldn't quite figure out. 

"Mr. Malfoy, you know you can't speak to teachers like that," Willow said in the best reproving voice she could manage, while Reed turned purple and sputtered. 

"Even him?" Draco said, giving her a very dashing little smile. _Bet he's used to getting his way with that smile. _

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, even him," said a voice from the doorway. Reed squeaked indignantly. Willow turned to see Snape standing there, arms crossed, looking dangerously amused. 

"I came to see what had become of my 5th period potions class," Snape said in a very droll voice. "You do realize 4th period ended some ten minutes ago?"

"I apologize, Professor Snape," Reed said, very stiffly. "I, for one, am aware of the necessity of keeping *order* in a school." He shot Willow a nasty little glare. 

"Oh, no need to apologize, Professor," Snape waved Reed's comments away. "This is fascinating. I can't wait to hear how Professor Rosenberg would suggest a master vampire be destroyed."

__

Oh, gee, thanks, poophead. Don't put me on the spot or anything. 

But the poophead knows something about vampires. I just said "older". He said "master".

He's so annoying. Why does he have to be smart and know stuff? Or, if he's smart and knows stuff, why's he have to be such a jerk? 

"Well, for starters, no eye contact," Willow said, a little more timidly now that the adrenaline rush of the argument had worn off a bit. "A lot of master vampires can put you in thrall."

"What's thrall?" asked Dean Thomas. 

"It's like the Imperius curse," answered a Slytherin girl near the back of the room - Blaise Zabini, Willow thought. 

"Very good," Willow said. "You know something about vampires, Miss Zabini?"

"A little," the dark-haired girl said with a shrug. 

"Probably her family breeds them or something," Ron hissed. 

"Mr. Weasley -" Snape began. 

"Five points from Gryffindor," Willow snapped out before he could finished. _Ha! So there! See, I can be fair and impartial and professional-like, unlike some poophead people who only ever take points from Gyffindor. _Ron gaped. She gave him an apologetic look before turning back to Snape.

The Potions Master had one eyebrow raised, half-questioning, half-mocking. 

"This is my classroom," Reed muttered dejectedly. 

"I was wondering -" Blaise continued, a little timidly but very determined, "what if you haven't got your wand? I mean, suppose a vampire were to jump out at you, or get you cornered or something, and your wand broke?" 

__

Okay, that was surprisingly specific. Note to self: find out after class if there's anything she needs to talk about. Like who got turned or died. 

"That's precisely what you should *avoid*, Miss Zabini," Reed interjected in a triumphant way. "Because really, once that happens - well, I would suggest prayer."

"I know that," Blaise snapped back. "Because it happened to my sister." 

__

Okay, that answers that. Ouch. 

"My best friend got turned when we were both 15," Willow offered. _This is what Reed doesn't get. These are Hellmouth kids. Okay, so no Hellmouth anywhere around, but . . these kids have seen stuff. Make a necklace out of garlic, yeah, right. _

"My sister just died," Blaise said with a shrug. "I was three, I don't remember too well. But my parents said when they found her, her wand was broken. When they found her in a public library," she added, shooting Reed a challenging look. 

"An aberration -" Reed tried to protest.

"I believe," Snape interrupted smoothly, "That Professor Rosenberg was going to explain to us how to dispatch a master vampire. Without use of a wand, perhaps?" _This is all occurring at my sufferance, _his tone said clearly. 

__

Oh, bite me, poophead. 

This is way more important for these kids than getting yelled at 'cause they shredded caterpillar gizzards wrong or something. 

"Was the wand totally trashed? Like, splinters?" Willow asked. "Or just snapped?"

"Snapped," Blaise said, calmly. "They still have it." 

"Then not without use of a wand," Willow said, glancing at Snape. _Come on, sarcastic guy, make a comment, I dare you. _"Just without use of a wand for magic."

"Without magic?" Reed scoffed. 

"Well, if you'd let them learn how to work spells without relying on a bunch of twigs, then it wouldn't be so much the issue," Willow retorted. "But since you don't, yeah, without magic."

"Impossible," Reed said flatly. 

"Funny how I've seen it done, lots," Willow answered.

"A fluke, assuredly," Reed insisted. "For a teenage girl to kill a vampire without the use of any magic? It's preposterous."

__

Note to self: bring Buffy in for show and tell.

Provided she ever speaks to you again.

Can't worry about that now. Guilt later. Kick ass in the present. Well, verbally, anyway. With the ass-kicking. Not literally. 

"Perhaps we could have a demonstration?" Snape suggested. 

__

Or literally. That could be fun too.

"And I suppose you have a vampire in your broom closet," Reed sneered. 

"Unnecessary," Snape shrugged. "As our ersatz vampire will be killed by physical means - with a broken wand, as I recall - he won't need to possess any of the qualities of a true vampire, such as sensitivity to garlic. For our purposes, he will only need superior strength and speed. Which can, as I'm sure you know -" his tone suggested he wasn't sure Reed knew how to tie his own shoes "- be accomplished with a simple charm."

"Of course," Reed answered a little too quickly. "Well, I suppose it might be educational . . show them what a really preposterous idea . . well, alright, who'll volunteer -"

"What fun I will have telling various Slytherin parents how their children have been impaled on small pieces of wood," Snape commented with dry, biting sarcasm. Willow had to stifle a giggle. Across the room, Draco Malfoy laughed out loud. Snape sent a quelling look in his direction. 

"It was your idea!" Reed protested sullenly. 

"My idea," Snape corrected him, "was that a demonstration be put on *for* the students. Not *by* the students. And I thought you appreciated *order*, Professor Reed."

__

I really should not appreciate the poopheaded jerk's . . well, jerkishness, even when it's being used to my benefit. 

But damn, he's good. 

"So me and Professor Reed," Willow nodded. "If that's okay with you, Professor? You know the charm Professor Snape's talking about?"

"Of course I know the charm!" Reed snapped, and pointed his own wand at his chest. "I will, of course, attempt not to do you any serious harm, Professor Rosenberg. Envigoro!"

And then he proceeded to stand there. 

"You're the vampire," Willow prompted. 

"I was aware of that," Reed retorted. 

"So you have to attack me!" 

"You aren't in possession of a broken wand. I assumed you were going to transfigure something," Reed said, looking a little smug when Willow blushed. 

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Well, uh -" she looked around. _How the blue frilly heck am I supposed to transfigure something into a broken wand? I don't know how to transfigure things!_

"Here," Harry said, reaching around Hermione and Ron to hand her the broken-off end of a ruler. "That'll do, won't it?" Willow looked questioningly at Snape. 

"If that is amenable to Professor Reed," Snape said. 

"Just let's get on with it," Reed answered. "Are you ready, Professor Rosenberg?"

"Vampires don't tend to ask that," Willow pointed out. 

He rushed her with a very realistic growl. Pansy Parkinson screamed, and Hermione sucked in a rapid breath - which was unsurprising, considering she was sitting immediately next to Willow, and thus the rather crazed-looking Professor Reed was very nearly rushing her. 

__

This is too easy, Willow thought with something very like glee. 

She stepped out from behind her desk. Reed stumbled slightly, trying to change course abruptly. She pulled the desk out in front of him, and it caught him hard in the stomach. He gave an inelegant grunt. Willow kicked out the legs of the desk, causing it - and Professor Reed, with it - to tumbled to the ground.

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered in a very awed voice. Hermione just squeaked. 

Reed caught Willow's ankle as he went down. 

__

Oh, fuck!

Her tailbone hit the stone floor, her legs splayed out in front of her, and she winced in pain. Reed, a triumphant look on his face, lunged towards her neck. 

__

Thank you, Dawnie, Willow thought briefly, and proceeded to give a girly little whimper and fall on her back. Reed loomed over her, not noticing the fragment of ruler between them until it was poking him in the chest. 

"Gotcha," Willow said with a smirk. Reed blinked, utterly dumbfounded. 

The rest of the class was still and silent. 

It suddenly occurred to Willow that she was laying on her back in the middle of a classroom, next to a desk she'd wrecked, with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor kneeling between her thighs - and someone was clapping, very slowly and theatrically. She twisted around to find the source of the sound as Reed blushed, stammered, and retreated hastily, casting the counter-charm on himself with such enthusiasm that his legs gave way beneath him. 

Snape ceased clapping when his eyes met Willow's. He gave her an ironic little bow, and then left. 

__

Oh no you don't, you bastard! 

Grimacing at the ache in her lower back, Willow picked herself up off the floor and followed Snape into the hallway. 

"Hey!" she yelled at his retreating back. He ignored her, turning a corner in a billow of dark robes around long legs. She followed, nearly running to keep up with his stride. 

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" she shouted. No response. He reached the door of his office, went inside, and began to swing the door shut. 

__

Oh no you fucking DON'T!

Willow broke into a run, catching the door with the flat of her palm just before it closed. She slapped it wide open. Snape's voice swore from the other side, and when Willow skidded to a halt just inside the doorway, he was clutching his overlarge nose and giving her a look that could have melted iron. 

__

Oh god I just hit him in the face with the door!

"Well you deserve it!" she snapped. "Next time you want to stage a dog fight, find somebody else to be your pit bull!" 

"This is my office," Snape said in a voice made even more dark and sinister than usual by his now-bleeding nose, "Leave."

"No!" Willow shouted, crossing her arms and planting her feet firmly in the doorway. 

Snape attempted once more to shut the door. Willow hit it with her elbow, swinging it open again. 

"You are being pathetically infantile, *Professor* Rosenberg," Snape ground out, making an insult of the title. "And you are creating a scene."

"Oh, so I can only create scenes when it's *your* plan, huh, *Professor* Snape?" she shot back. 

"It's hardly my fault that you're so easily manipulated, *Professor* Rosenberg," Snape drawled in return, drawing a handkerchief from a pocket in his robes and pressing it to his nose, deliberately casual. 

"Oh, you - you - I can't think of anything obnoxious and pompous and poopheaded enough!" Willow exclaimed. 

"I'll have to agree, obnoxious and pompous and particularly *poopheaded* really are very inferior examples of insults," Snape responded smoothly. "Quite beneath you."

"And you'd know all about the insults, since you like practicing them on your defenseless students," Willow retorted. 

"They won't be defenseless very long, I'd think, with you teaching them," Snape answered. 

Willow opened her mouth to respond, and snapped it shut again. _Wait a minute. That was a compliment. _

And then Snape shut the door in her puzzled face, making her stumble back out of the doorframe to avoid having her toes crushed.

TBC . . . 


	11. An Improvement Over Nothing

Title: An Improvement Over Nothing (11/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Willow gets a clue. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

***

Hermione dropped an enormous stack of books down on the library table with a resounding thump. She winced slightly, feeling thankful that Madam Pince wasn't around to comment on the noise.

"We're gonna need all that?" Ron asked incredulously. 

"Binns only asked for a foot and a half," Harry concurred, eyeing the large number of thick and dusty tomes doubtfully. 

"He only asked for a foot and a half because he knew we'd never find more than that," Hermione retorted, grabbing a thick volume bound in crumbling gray leather and pushing it determinedly across the table towards Ron. "Very few historians give more than a sentence or two to Ulburg the Raider, which is a shame, because really, some of the extreme tactics used by the Wizarding authorities against any suspected Goblins were, in my opinion, part of what started people thinking about the need for better interspecies dialogue and recognition of -" she cut off at the blank looks from Harry and Ron. "Didn't you pay attention at *all*?" 

"I thought the first Goblin/Wizard treaties weren't until the Middle Ages at least," Ron said with a worried look. "There were treaties and stuff in the Dark Ages?" He paused, frown deepening. "Ulburg *was* doing his raiding and all that rot around 500-some, wasn't he?"

"He was," Harry affirmed, flipping through a few scant pages of notes. "I wrote that down. You sure you've got the right Goblin, Hermione?"

"Of course I've got the right Goblin," she answered, picking up 'Dark Events of the Dark Ages' and skimming through the chapter titles. "And you're right, the first official treaty was in 1023. I just meant that the extreme violence with which Ulburg's fairly bloodless raids were met created the sort of unstable and resentful atmosphere where socio-political change was possible." She glanced up.

More vacant stares.

"Oh, never mind," she sighed. 

"Makes sense to me," a muffled voice murmured from her right side. Hermione cast a worried look at the mop of red hair and crossed elbows that were all she could see of the person seated next to her. 

"It really wasn't so awful," Hermione offered tentatively.

"Yes it was," Willow insisted to the tabletop. 

"Not so awful?" Ron scoffed. "It was bloody brilliant! If I'd known you were gonna thrash Reed in today's class, I would've sold tickets!" 

Willow whimpered. Hermione shot her friend a reproachful glare. 

"I think you're not helping, Ron," Harry muttered. 

"I'm sure half the other professors wish they could have seen it," Hermione said placatingly. "And the other half wish they could have *done* it. Really, everyone knows Reed's a complete . . that is, a total -"

"Useless prat?" Ron offered. 

"Pathetic waste of space?" Harry suggested. 

"He's still a *professor*," Hermione snapped. "You shouldn't -" she glanced nervously back at Willow. "Er, I mean - well, he is. Those things." _Oh for Merlin's sake, it's Reed, you've no trouble insulting Trelawney, and she's a professor, you'd think you could think of one acceptable insult and perhaps remember that pointing out his authority isn't the most brilliant plan for cheering up the woman who just tossed him over a desk!_

"But you still shouldn't *say* it," Willow argued, still not lifting her head. "Or point it out any other way. Like by getting into a brawl in the middle of class and ending up spread-eagle on the floor and I probably shouldn't be pointing that out to you either 'cause you're all young and impressionable and god I'm just gonna shut up now," she concluded with a faint moan. 

"We're not *that* young and impressionable," Ron countered, sounding indignant. "I mean, we know what it looks -" Hermione stepped hard on his foot under the table. 

"What'd you do that for?" he demanded. 

"Still not helping . . " Harry hissed. 

"I just meant she wasn't, you know, corrupting us or anything like .. right," Ron trailed off at Willow's whimpering. "Shutting up now." He snatched up the book Hermione had shoved in his direction, opening it to some random point and appearing to be completely engrossed. _Oh really, Ron, it's *upside down*. _

"But really, somebody needed to do it," Hermione insisted. _And this is wasting time I could be researching Ulburg the Raider. Not that I mind, exactly, Willow's almost like a friend even if she is a professor, but . .it's going to take forever, and I really should have at least two feet worth. _"They deserved it, on both counts."

"Both counts?" Harry inquired. 

__

Oops. Forgot they didn't know about the Snape incident. 

Honestly, I wish I didn't know. And I think she's wishing she didn't tell me. 

It's completely inappropriate. 

And just too funny. I'm going to bust out laughing in the middle of Potions if he comes in with a great swollen nose and two black eyes - which of course he won't, he's a Potions Master, he knows how to make a poultice, but I'm going to be thinking it anyway. 

"Both . .points," Hermione hedged. "I meant, she made several excellent points -"

"I hit Snape in the face with a door," Willow muttered dejectedly. Ron's upside down book hit the table with a loud clunk. 

__

She really does have to stop telling us students everything, or she's going to get herself in trouble.

And I've got to stop enjoying it so much. It's very petty. 

Really, I shouldn't find it so amusing. 

"You didn't really," Ron asked incredulously, looking half horrified and half like someone had just announced that today was both Christmas and his new birthday. 

"I really did," Willow confirmed, sounding utterly miserable. 

"But she didn't mean to," Hermione interjected hastily. "That was an accident." _But he *did* deserve it. He's a brilliant Potions Master and he is on our side but honestly, he's a bully, and he's got to learn better than to be provoking people constantly and if this doesn't teach him - _

"Who cares?" Ron exclaimed. "Colin Creevey wasn't around, was he?"

Harry and Hermione both gave Ron puzzled looks. 

"Nobody else saw, thank each and every single one of the gods," Willow said fervently. 

"Damn," Ron said, shoulders slumping in disappointment.

"Why do you care if Colin saw?" Harry asked, but Hermione figured it out. _Oh, honestly, Ron . . _

"Because he would have taken pictures," she explained with an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, come on!" Ron insisted. "If there was ever an event that deserved to be preserved forever, that was it! Bloody shame -"

"But my *point* was," Hermione spoke loudly over him, lowering her voice when a group of Ravenclaw sixth years at the next table over gave her very reproachful looks, "she didn't *mean* to hit Snape, it was an accident and it only happened because he was slamming the door in her face and she caught it -" 

Ron broke out in loud guffaws, attempting half-heartedly to stifle them when one of the Ravenclaws made very emphatic and annoyed hushing sounds in his direction.

" - so it's not her fault," Hermione finished determinedly. 

__

This is a really doomed endeavor, isn't it? Ought to just let her sulk and get on with Ulburg.

"And Reed is -"

"Useless prat," Ron reminded her.

"Pathetic waste of space," Harry prompted. 

"Oh, stop it!" Hermione exploded. The Ravenclaws slammed their books shut and stalked away. _I'm disrupting others' studying now too! This is just about enough! _"It's good for a laugh, yes -" Willow groaned - "but it's really *not funny*!" 

"But, it's not really serious or anything," Harry countered, giving Hermione an incredulous look and shifting his eyes between her and Willow. "Nothing to be upset about -"

"I don't mean what Willow did," Hermione retorted. "I mean the whole retched situation that lead up to it. Reed *is* useless and pathetic, and he's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, and with You-Know-Who on the loose, there's nothing remotely amusing about it! So I say, good for Willow! And I'll say it to Dumbledore if I have to! At least we learned *something* in that class today!"

There was a moment's quiet, in which Hermione could hear the retreating Ravenclaws muttering about melodramatic Gryffindors. She blushed furiously. 

"Well, really," she finished weakly. "It's the truth."

"It really is," Harry agreed, but he was still watching her a little warily. 

"You know - and thanks for the vote of confidence - I don't know who," Willow commented, finally lifting her head from the table enough that a single green eye peaked out sideways from under her hair. 

"Know who what?" Harry asked. 

"You-Know-Who," Willow said, sitting up and brushing her hair out of her face. Hermione was still blushing at her own outburst, but was satisfied to see it had brought Willow out of her funk. _And at only the small cost of my humiliation. _

At least I can get on with research now. 

"I've heard a bunch of people saying that these past two weeks, and it's annoying as all you-know-what, 'cause you know, I *don't* know who," Willow went on with a small shrug. "Just wondering if anybody could fill me in."

Hermione, Ron and Harry exchanged flabbergasted looks. 

"You - don't know - about You-Know Who?" Hermione asked, trying not to sound too shocked. _But . . EVERYONE knows about You-Know-Who! Even the muggle-borns, it's the first thing you hear about the minute you take the slightest peek into the wizarding world -_

"That'd be You-Don't-Know-From-Adam to me," Willow said. 

"Bloody hell," said Ron incredulously. "Seriously?"

"What?" Willow asked, glancing between them. "Is this some sort of learned-it-in-kindergarten thing? Am I being a total clueless freak again?"

"You are *not* a freak," Hermione said firmly. "But - well, it's just surprising -"

"No wonder you don't treat me any differently!" Harry exclaimed suddenly. "You're not putting on, you honestly don't know!"

"Know *what*?" Willow asked. 

***

Willow stalked very determinedly through the corridor, the students giving her a wide berth.

__

I wonder if the rumor mill is already churning about the DADA disaster, if it's just the could-potentially-spit-nails look that I suspect is currently on my face? 

He didn't tell me. 

There's a big bad of an evil wizard, and this Harry kid is some sort of magical mini-Slayer, and there's a war, and the big poophead jerk is actually a reformed cult member who's now a spy. Or, was a spy. Until the snake thing which Hermione's convinced he didn't know about - and oh, by the way, just in case anybody cares, the snake-thing was courtesy of one Voldemort, our resident evil-wizard Big Bad. 

Just in case anybody might have been interested in these little details.

And I though Reed's class was bad enough as preparation for maybe someday meeting something nasty in a dark alley.

But no, actually, it's all the preparation these kids are getting for a fucking war! 

A war!

Isn't there some sort of legal clause somewhere saying you have to tell somebody when they're getting freakin' combat duty? 

I mean, there's gotta be a rule somewhere against just going "take that desk over there, might want to duck and cover on your way over, don't mind the shrapnel."

Not that I even got that!

A pair of first-year Hufflepuff girls ducked into a doorway as she stormed past. 

__

Not that this is about me. Because I can hold my own. I mean, hello, lived on a Hellmouth. Closed a Hellmouth. Fought a god. My life would make this Voldie guy piss his pants. So *not* impressed. 

But there are the kids. Who I've gotten kinda attached to.

Who are being assigned homework like braiding garlic necklaces.

Garlic necklaces! These people are wizards! They're clued in! In the know! Not like Sunnydale adults. Not off the hook for being clueless like Sunnydale adults. 

Not lacking in responsibility for what happens when the next generation, who are *always* the ones who get stuck with the blood and guts and horror end of crap like this, think a garlic braid is going to save them from an evil wizard doing a bad Hitler impression! 

And that smug bastard didn't tell me!

She caught sight down the corridor of the ugly gargoyle Harry had told her was the entrance to Dumbledore's office. She picked up her pace, causing a group of Slytherin third years to have to dodge out of her way or be trampled. 

__

And if he thinks just because I'm all desperate in need of a job and pitiful and homeless and stuff that means I'm gonna sit by, tow the party line, let that idiot Reed teach these kids nothing that's good for anything except getting all kinds of dead just because Reed's some sort of tattle-tale to their really screwed up Ministry, well then - 

She rapped on the stone gargoyle hard enough to send shooting pains through her knuckles and up her wrist. "Professor Rosenberg here, to see Headmaster Dumbledore!" she announced in a loud and demanding voice. "Open sesame already!"

__

- well then he's got another fucking thing coming!

The gargoyle slid aside to reveal a narrow, winding stone stairway. Willow stomped up the stairs, taking in only vague details of the office at the summit. _Lots of paintings of old guys, weird gadgets, potential to be cozy. _

"Willow," Dumbledore greeted her warmly, in the personal-yet-somehow-professional way he had with all of the staff. "Lemon drop?"

__

Okay, I haven't looked in any mirrors, but I do not think I have a offer-her-sweets sort of look on my face right now. 

"What can I do for you?" he asked in the same cordial tone, replacing the lid on the tin of sweets and folding his hands on his desk, apparently unperturbed her lack of response to the offered candy. 

"You can cut the crap," Willow snapped out. _Okay, when I was practicing that in my head it involved bigger words and less cursing. Stupid temper. _

"Ah," Dumbledore said grimly, nodding. "Please, have a seat." He gestured at a selection of chairs arrayed in front of the desk. 

"I think I'll stand," Willow said stiffly. 

"As you wish," he conceded with a gracious wave of his hand. _If he gets any calmer about this I'm gonna have to start breaking things. _"I will hazard a guess, and say you've been speaking to Mr. Potter."

"Yeah," Willow folded her arms across her chest. "We had this really interesting little convo about evil wizards and spies and messiah-like babies. It was enlightening."

"And now you are wondering why I did not tell you all this when you first arrived here," Dumbledore suggested. 

"There's that," Willow nodded. "Then there's the wondering why your Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum ought to be re-titled 'Being Lunch for Beginners' or maybe 'Intermediate Getting Really Dead.' And then there's the being confused about what in the frickin' hell is up with this 'You-Know-Who' crap - you can't even say the guy's freakin' name? Oh, yeah, that's inspiring confidence!"

"I quite agree," Dumbledore said levelly.

"And besides that, what's - huh?" Willow cut off short. 

"I agree," Dumbledore repeated. 

"You agree that you're going about this evil-fighting business like a bunch of headless chickens?" Willow challenged. 

"Absolutely," Dumbledore nodded, looking almost cheerful. 

"And you're not *doing* something about this because . ?" Willow demanded. 

"When will you need a classroom?" he asked. 

"Huh?" she responded blankly. _Okay, I think I skipped a track there. _

"Professor Reed is a necessary evil," Dumbledore went on, "though that is hardly his fault. Our Ministry is rather fond of their - how did you put it? - their chickens-without-heads approach. They do not recognize that we are in any danger. Anyone who suggests otherwise becomes .. suspect. I made the unfortunate error, at the end of last term, of expecting our Minister of Magic to be more concerned with meeting the threat of Voldemort than with keeping the public's approval. I'm afraid I accomplished little more than to . . upset him."

"So now you've got a babysitter," Willow nodded along. "It's no excuse. Make him teach something else. To leave these kids unprepared -"

"I am not, Miss Rosenberg, leaving them unprepared," Dumbledore answered her rather sternly. "In fact, I think I've found them the best teacher possible to train them in the skills they will need to survive and, fate willing, even triumph. I am not, of course, referring to Professor Reed."

"Great. When do I get to meet this miracle worker?" 

"You've met," Dumbledore said, and there was a twinkle of mirth in his eye. _Does this guy find EVERYTHING entertaining? 'cause you know what, that's just a little wee bit annoying._

"Willow," he said in a tone of amused patience, "I'm talking about you."

She stared blankly, utterly deflated. 

__

Huh? What? Me? Huh?

"Me?" she squeaked after a long moment

"I repeat, when will you need a classroom?" Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers and watching her closely. "I am correct in assuming that you've discovered something you find worth teaching?"

"Not Dying 101?" Willow said incredulously. 

"Excellent course title!" Dumbledore exclaimed, reaching for a quill and jotting it down on a piece of parchment. "I believe there's a large unused dungeon that would suit your purposes very well. Now, as your class must, unfortunately, be an elective due to starting mid-term, you have some leeway in how you may arrange it. Would you prefer to teach groups of students all in the same year? Or would you - and this would be my preference - rather mix things up a bit?" 

__

Things are already mixed up just a bit, Willow thought. "You planned this all along," she said aloud. 

"I hoped," Dumbledore answered. 

"I don't like being manipulated," Willow said flatly. "Just about filled my quota of that for today."

"Such is war," Dumbledore said in the steel-edged voice she'd heard from him when they first met in the hospital, and discussed her past magic abuse. "Will you refuse to help where you are needed?"

"Why don't you tell me what you 'hope'," she retorted. He didn't answer, just put his quill down and waited. 

"No," she said finally, shaking her head. "No, I won't. I just -" she cut off, not sure how to put her next thought into words, or whether she even should. 

"You thought this was what you ran from," Dumbledore finished for her. 

"That's about it," Willow admitted, shrugging. _I'm not important. I'm not strong. Things don't end well when people ask me to be._

But I've got to be an improvement over nothing. I hope. 

"So can we go check out this dungeon I'll be teaching in?"

***

Okay, lesson plans. Notices for Filch to put in common rooms. Recommended reading list. No, wait, first find out what's in the library - do we *have* the books I want on the reading list? I've been focused on all the books I *hadn't* read before. 

Willow meandered up the corridor between her new dungeon classroom and her living quarters in an overwhelmed daze. 

__

Field trips. Dang it, forgot to ask about field trips. 

Waivers - do I need waivers from parents? I plan on teaching some graphic stuff. 

I wonder where I can get body pads. I think I can talk to Professor Flitwick about making selectively incorporeal stakes so they can't actually stab each other, but there's still the knees and elbows and fingernails and all. They can do some damage, those elbows.

I'm actually going to be teaching a class of my own design. I don't believe this.

My class is officially entitled 'Not Dying 101'.

I *really* don't believe this. 

Hrmm - belief and expectation - should there be some philosophy involved? Do I want to get into theory as well as practice? Or maybe that should be for Not Dying 102. 

She giggled to herself. A group of passing Slytherins looked at her oddly. 

__

I wonder if I have to stay traditional with the class time - I mean, want to give them a real taste of the evil-fighting life? Pull them out of bed at three in the morning. 

Not for every class, though. But maybe once or twice? Maybe for tests? Unannounced tests! 'Cause you know, apocalyspses, you don't usually get much warning. 

Well, sometimes prophesies.

Ooooh, I could set up a fake apocalypse! Clues and prophesies and stuff, and if they do their homework, then they're warned, if not, tough noogies. 

They're gonna hate me worse than - 

She walked straight into something very solid, which grunted when she hit it. 

__

- Snape. 

"Don't you think you've inflicted sufficient physical injury to the rest of the staff for one day, Professor Rosenberg?" he practically snarled, scowling down his slightly bruised nose at her. She just stared, feeling overwhelmed with her new knowledge of this man.

__

Goddess, does he ever define 'jerk'. 

But he's Dumbledore's spy. All noble and reformed and self-sacrificing and amends-making and stuff. 

And maybe he's a bastard 'cause he's just got no patience for all us sheltered people. Well, not that I'm a sheltered people, but not like he knows that, either. 

Still not a good excuse to be mean to kids. 

But still . . big jerky poopheads don't generally go risking their lives to make the world a better place. 

"Admiring your handiwork?" Snape inquired, voice dripping sarcasm. She realized she'd been staring at his nose, and flushed. 

"No, I just - I mean -" she stammered. He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot," she forced the words out in a rush. "Okay, possibly the whole wrong leg. But there's - stuff. That we might have in common. Or not, but we're gonna work together, and we're on the same side in - stuff, that I think probably isn't the stuff of hallway conversations. So, um, would you maybe - wanna go get some coffee or something?" 

He just stared at her expressionlessly.

"Sometime," she amended hastily. "Not necessarily now. Later is fine." 

He was developing a hint of an expression; it looked like shock. 

"Or, maybe you don't like coffee. Maybe something other than coffee? Beer?" 

No response. 

"Or, not beer. You don't look like a beer drinker. Me either, you know. I like to eat the olives out of martinis but really I don't drink much so - maybe a non-alcoholic outing would be good. Um, you have any particular feelings on hot chocolate?"

He was looking at her like she's grown a second head. 

"Or maybe I should just go," she cringed. "And find a rock to hide under." 

She hurried around him - he still hadn't moved, standing frozen in place as if petrified - and broke into a near run, not stopping until she'd reached her rooms. 

***

The knock on her door came at some unidentifiably late hour; Willow was still unnerved by the fact that her clock said things like "late" and "you missed dinner" rather than showing actual times. 

__

Other aspects of living in a magical castle have their benefits, though - like when you do miss dinner, house elves show up with trays full of tasty things. 

Also, they're good for fetching things, like library books, when you're humiliated and not leaving your rooms ever, ever again or interacting with any member of the human species. 

Willow paused, a dinner roll liberally smeared with herb butter half-way to her mouth. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her enormous bed surrounded by stacks of open library books, assorted lists on parchment, and a small salamander of the magical rather than amphibious kind in a floating fishbowl - evidently the wizarding equivalent of a book light, according to the house-elf that brought it. _But much cuter. _

And who the heck is knocking on my door this time of night?

Oh god, it's an attack. Or an apocalypse. Or somebody's dead. 

She threw the roll in the general direction of her dinner tray and launched herself off the bed, ignoring the fact that she was barefoot and pajama-clad, and sprinted across the room to the door. The person on the other side of it knocked again, more insistently this time. 

"I'm coming!" she called out, and flung the door open. "What's hap -" she cut off, her jaw dropping open. 

There stood Severus Snape, a silver tray holding an enormous, elaborate silver tea service balance on one hand, the other hand frozen in the act of knocking. 

__

Okay, not an apocalypse.

But just possibly the end of the world as I know it. 

Do NOT laugh. You will not laugh. You laugh and I'm so gonna kick your ass into next week. 

Is it a sign of psychosis to be threatening to beat yourself up?

Is it a sign of psychosis to show up at someone's doorway at ten at night with a big old honkin' tea tray? 

There will NOT be laughing!

He looked, even more than usual, like he'd swallowed something sour. 

"Uh, did Dumbledore send you to check on me?" she asked hesitantly. _No giggles. Bad giggles! Bad, BAD giggles! _

"No," he said brusquely, and dropped the hand that had been about to knock, still holding up that tea tray. _He looks like a bad caricature of a butler!_

And I'm wearing a nightgown. 

This could get more fucked up. Maybe a couple naked house elves could streak by singing Christmas carols. 

"So, uh - tea," she said. _And I have the social skills of a demented ten year old. _

Of course, hello to the unannounced, near midnight tea. I'm in good company here. 

"I don't like coffee," he said, as if that explained everything, still grimacing as if he might be sick any moment. 

__

Okay, he doesn't like coffee - oh, coffee! 

How did you forget the oh-so-humiliating coffee discussion?

Possibly because watching somebody else humiliating themselves is a real good distraction from your own embarrassment and shame. 

So he's . . trying to be nice?

Ye gads, does he really need some practice! 

And he looks like he knows it. I think . . I think the swallowed-a-barrel-of-half-rotted-lemons look just might mean he's .. nervous? 

I'm capable of making someone nervous? In a non-death-threat sort of way? 

"So, why don't you, um, come in or something?" she squeaked out, opening the door and standing aside. "I mean, not or something. Come in. Not that I'm like, ordering you to, or anything, but you're standing there, and that looks heavy -" _you laugh, I kill you - _"so, uh -" 

He walked in past her. _Thank the Goddess. Uh, would it be too much to ask that you just strike me with lightening or send a plague of scorpions or something if I ever open my mouth again? _

"There's the table," she said inanely, gesturing towards her small kitchenette. _And, oh look, there's my open bedroom door, and there's my underwear on the floor. And seeing as it's all kinds of dark in here and there's a floating salamander over my bed it's sorta spotlighted and oh look, there he is checking out the piles of books and the bras. _

Oh, you know what, fuck this being awkward shit. We're both way too pathetic to care. 

She marched into the bedroom and grabbed two books up off the bed. 

"So," she said in a determinedly conversational voice as she walked back to the kitchenette, aware she was still in her frumpy flannel nightgown and blushing furiously, "who do you think is the more definitive source on demonology as relates to sorcery? Would you go with Dimitrov's 'Compendium of Fiends' or Engelbreth's 'An Encyclopedia of Hell and Its Denizens'?" She plopped the two books down on the table, next to the tea service, and hastily muttered the charm to light the wall sconces around the room. 

__

He's doing that suffering-head-trauma kinda staring again .. 

"Dimitrov," he said after a long, very awkward pause, and seemed to gather some of his dignity. "Engelbreth's is more complete, but also full of religious superstition." 

She nodded, pulling the book he'd chosen towards her and sitting, gesturing for him to take the other chair. 

"That's what I was thinking, but he's kinda skimpy on the details of directed use of Succubi," she said. _Nobody's serving the tea. Am I supposed to serve the tea? I live here. That makes me the hostess. But he brought the freakin' tea service with the many bazillions of implements and dishes that I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with! _

Oh, screw it, I'm serving the tea. 

"Cream and sugar?"

To be continued . . . 


	12. Bonds

Title: Bonds (12/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R (Deals with issues of abuse. You guessed it, Narcissa's in this chapter.)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Love hurts. Sometimes even strong like hurts. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

***

"I'm forgetting something," Willow insisted dejectedly, flopping down to the floor in a billow of skirts, somehow folding her legs beneath her in the process. It was one of the many idiosyncrasies Severus found himself noting in the last several days; it was only because of the number of times she had collapsed on him, run into him, and otherwise collided with his body that he knew that her body actually contained bones. She moved . . well, oddly. She wasn't graceful, but there was something about the unaffectedness of her movements that was compelling. 

__

There's something about all of her that's compelling. 

Odd, a little disturbing, but compelling. 

The floor around her was color-coded, annotated chaos. She carried around six different pots of ink, all in vibrant jewel tones. They were all spread out before her, along with pages upon pages of brightly hued notes on parchment, stacks of books, and a disconcerting assortment of weapons. 

__

And for some utterly inexplicable reason, this fascinating, obsessive little creature has spread her madness out over my office floor. 

It had been a week since the tea incident. He still wasn't quite sure what had possessed him. It certainly hadn't been her stricken expression when she'd thought he was turning down her offer of coffee. He was used to stricken expressions; in the right circumstances, a good stricken expression could be quite amusing. 

__

But I am not used to being asked out for coffee. Not used to people wanting to . . make friends. 

Which is evidently a far simpler process than I'd ever imagined, considering she hasn't left me alone since.

I ought to mind that. No one simply barges into my office, several hours after dinner no less, and drops a pile of cudgels and demonology texts in the middle of my floor without receiving, at the very least, a scathing remark. I enjoy my solitude. I do not enjoy the company of presumptious, interfering little do-gooders who need constant reassurance of their own perfection. 

I most especially do not enjoy the company of people who feel the need to make lesson plans in a minimum of three colors. It's insipid. 

"I am, aren't I?" Willow insisted, biting her lip. "You're giving me that 'you bloody little twit' look again. I'm forgetting something really obvious, right? Like, duh, how could I possibly forget that?"

__

I do not find pitiful insecurity or babbling to be endearing traits. 

I do not. 

"Yes, you are," he responded drily. Her face crumpled. He resisted the urge to smirk. _She's far too easy a mark. _

"What?" she asked dejectedly. 

"You are forgetting that it's just a bloody lesson plan," he retorted smoothly. She scowled. 

"Ass," she snapped. He stiffened momentarily, but she was half smiling, her lips twitching upward even as her brow was furrowing accusingly. 

__

She's teasing. 

I don't like teasing. 

Who's the easy mark now?

"Joke! It was a joke!" she said placatingly at his offended frown. "Sheesh!"

"I am not accustomed to allowing others to make me an object of fun," he replied stiffly, crossing his arms. It usually worked to intimidate students. She snorted. 

"Well get used to it," she retorted, seeming not the least perturbed. "But seriously, can you think of anything I'm forgetting? You know way more about this dark wizardry stuff than I do." She paused a moment, and her eyes went wide. "I mean, you know, academically. With the study, and – nothing that would be accusing you of anything or implying knowledge of personal things that I don't know because I shouldn't know them and I should just shut up now, should I?" 

He blinked at her. 

__

I believe this would be the perfect excuse to fly into a rage and order her out of my office.

"Albus told me what Mr. Potter told you," he answered instead, feeling increasingly off-balance. 

"Oh," she sighed. "You don't mind?"

__

Shouldn't it be me asking that of her?

Doesn't she mind sharing the room with someone who made vows of eternal allegiance to the most evil wizard alive? Who contributed to the torture and slaughter of innocents? She's concerned for my feelings? 

Why isn't she concerned that she might be contaminated by breathing the same air?

She has her own darkness, yes. But cranking doesn't compare. The worst I can think of that a junky might do for her fix doesn't come even close. 

She can't really understand. She wouldn't be here if she did. 

And yet, I cannot picture Mr. Potter painting an overly charitable account of my past. 

"If I minded, I suppose you would volunteer to be placed under a memory charm just to spare my delicate feelings?" he asked drily. 

"Well, um, no," she responded awkwardly. "I know, and I'm gonna keep on knowing, and memory charms kinda give me the heebey-jeebies these days, but – I don't want you to mind."

"You were just calling me an ass," he pointed out.

"That's different," she said, in a tone that suggested that should have been obvious.

__

Of course. Randomly insulting one's friends is acceptable. Knowing the past histories and weaknesses of one's comrades at arms, however, is evidently awkard and deserving of apologies. 

She's mad. Interfering, babbling, colored-ink-carrying mad. 

She brushed a strand of coppery hair out of her face. The heel of her hand brushed across her cheekbone in the process, leaving a smear of emerald ink. It should have looked ridiculous, childish; he should have been laughing at her expense. 

He wasn't. The wash of bright color so close to her eyes made them fairly glow. 

__

And whatever the reason, she doesn't want me to mind. 

He had the sudden urge to kneel beside her and kiss her ink-smeared cheek. Of all the things his brain could have pulled from past experience, it was an almost shockingly innocent impulse. He just wanted to reach out and touch that brightness. 

"I just smeared ink all over my face, didn't I?" Willow asked, grimacing. The moment broke. 

__

And you would be worse than a fool to presume that because she seeks your casual company she would ever want your touch. 

She's alone here, no matter how friendly she seems with the students. Alone, and recovering, and you would be taking horrible advantage. 

She's probably let worse things touch her. Junkies aren't picky. 

But she isn't a junky now. And it's not entirely certain that there actually are worse things than you, not least because you just thought that. 

She was still staring up at him expectantly.

"Not all over," he said with a smirk, trying to hide the muddle of his thoughts behind his usual biting humor. 

"Bite me," she snapped back, but she was smiling. 

__

Don't tempt me, he thought, but he just wordlessly handed over his handkerchief.

***

Narcissa eased the door closed behind her, stepping softly into the kitchen from the servants' entrance. It was as dark inside as out, but far quieter. Outside on the grounds there had been the hooting of owls, the brush of the wind over the grasses and among the trees, the faint crunch of frost under her boots. Inside was nothing but stillness. 

She paused, back to the door. It was too still. There should have been house elves, if not up and about at this time of night, at least sleeping in the corners, making those tiny sounds that all creatures make just by existing. She could hear no one and nothing alive in the room save for her. 

"Hello, dearest," Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the shadows. Narcissa jumped, hands clenching, heart leaping into her throat before she could control herself. She went very still then, arms at her sides, just watching him, barely breathing as he stalked towards her. 

__

Give him nothing, no movement, no sound, nothing, nothing that might make him angrier.

Oh god, oh god, oh god . . 

"And where have been at this late hour?" he enquired silkily. He reached out, pushing her cloak aside over her shoulder, taking her left hand. She didn't react. His hands were warm despite his surroundings, despite the fact that he must have been waiting motionless in the dark for some time. He pulled her arm out towards him, twisting it carefully so that her palm faced up, and rolled the sleeve upward. Neat, tidy, without feeling. 

"Diagon Alley," she answered truthfully. _Always better to tell the truth at first, as much truth as you dare tell, he always knows when you lie, always knows, oh god, he's going to know –_

He examined her wrist, then the inner bend of her elbow, then lifted the loose-fitting bell sleeve high enough to peer at the underside of her upper arm. He let her hand drop, and the sleeve fell down around her fingertips again. He pulled the cloak back into place, and reached for her other hand. She let him move her limbs about as if she were a doll, as if she felt nothing. 

__

He's being gentle. He hasn't hurt me.

And you always fall for that . . always think it'll last, think because he's being quiet it means he won't strike . . always let him lull you . . 

And it was still working, even now, when she knew better. His fingers on her skin were careful, precise, soothing. Her drumbeat pulse was slowing. 

__

Because it's soothing not to move. Not to think. To let someone do whatever they wish. 

Her gut was twisting in revulsion as he examined her right arm, but her breath was coming deeper now; she didn't have to breathe so shallowly to keep from panting in fear. It was an automatic reaction, habit long ingrained, and she hated herself for it. 

"And what is in Diagon Alley this time of night?" he enquired mildly, running a finger over the slightly pebbled skin of her inner arm. She shivered involuntarily, and bit her tongue to keep from answering. 

__

I want to answer. Gods help me, I know it would ruin everything, I know he would kill me, but I want to answer. I don't want to defy him. 

Why did I think I could do this? What made me think a pathetic little whore like me could do this?

Draco. Thumbs in jars. The crutiatus, which doesn't leave marks oh god he'll use it on me again it's been years I can't, I can't, I don't even have anything stored away to numb me after anymore I'm so fucking stupid I thought he never would again oh god I have to answer have to, no, no, can't, Draco, thumbs in jars, he could put my thumbs in a jar, could put Draco's thumbs in a jar, Draco, must think of Draco, can't tell, can't answer, oh god CAN'T – 

She sucked in an audible breath, but it was the only sound to escape her. 

That brought his eyes up to her face. 

"No needles," he remarked, settling her clothing back into place over her right arm, approving in a way that said she'd made a narrow escape. "That's good. You used to embarrass me so, with that muggle filth." 

She didn't respond. Her heart was like something trapped and desperate beating on the cage of her chest, trying to escape. 

"I asked you a question," he reminded her calmly, voice like the creeping chill of winter that still clung to her skin. It was cold in the kitchen, his breath leaving whisps like ghosts to float in the air between them. Her breath left no mark, too shallow and her body too chilled. 

__

If he kills me now it will have been for nothing. No one knows. All his secrets will sit in the Black family vault until some distant cousin of mine thinks to check on it and by then we might all be long dead and gone, dust in our graves, oh god I don't want to die, I don't want him to hurt me, it's been too long, I don't know how to survive it anymore – 

Draco. Thumbs in jars. Draco. Draco. Draco, she chanted her son's name silently, like a litany against her terror, against the roiling nausea, against the thing in her gut that said _Cissa doesn't do this, Cissy isn't a hero, she's not good, she's a stupid fucking little whore and what the hell are you playing at? Do you think you can save him? Do you think you can save anything? You can't save your own pathetic self. _

Just answer, the voice hissed. _Just answer, tell him you never meant to go through with it, tell him you were angry he'd been ignoring you, and he'll curse you and he'll torture you and then it'll be over and you can find someone to crank you up so good you won't even remember . . you don't even have to remember it really if you don't want to – _

- but there are memories, shards of memories, worse than having it all, no images, no sounds,just my skin trying to crawl away and oh God I can't let this happen to Draco, I can't, I can't -

He trailed one finger along her jawline, just the edge of a neatly trimmed nail touching her skin, letting her feel the faint sharpness. It wasn't painful but her body wanted to twitch away. It almost stung all by itself, just in the threat it whispered. 

"I could give you veritaserum," he murmered, as if he were suggesting she order venison for dinner in place of beef. 

__

No! Answer him! Just answer him you stupid little whore, answer him so at least you can lie a little, at least he won't know what you meant to do, if you have to tell the full truth he'll kill you, he'll kill you slow, they'll never even find your body, you're going to be a shelf of little jars down in that dank little place with the walls closing in and - 

"I could kill myself first," she answered, barely audible. She didn't know where the words even came from. He blinked. She almost giggled, it was so unexpected, so unlike him. 

"Wouldn't that be embarrassing," Lucius answered, in the shrewd, low voice she'd only ever heard him use with other Death Eaters. Other Death Eaters who'd displeased him, but whom he needed still. Hearing it used with her made her stomach lurch in open rebellion. _I'm just his wife. His showpiece, his toy. He's never looked at me like that and I never wanted him to, I don't *do* things like that, it'd gotten bearable, he was just leaving me alone, why am I doing this?_

Draco. Draco. Must think of Draco. Draco on his first broomstick, look Mum, I'm flying! These school robes make me look silly, Mum. I'm in Slytherin, Mum, they barely even had to put the hat on my head! Oh stop *sniffling* Mum, they're just dress robes. 

Lucius was watching her, eyes narrowed. 

"Who is it?" he asked, finally, after a moment in which Narcissa thought she almost felt herself age. 

__

What? 

"Do you think you'll make me jealous?" Lucius enquired, voice silky smooth and deadly. "Have I been *neglecting* you, dear?" 

__

Oh god he thinks I was meeting with a lover! He thinks I'm cuckolding him! 

For the second time in minutes she nearly laughed out loud. 

"Is it Severus?" he asked, tilting his head, sneering at her. "You always did have a soft . . spot, for him, didn't you?" His meaning was obvious and obscene. She didn't flush. She was almost too shocked to react at all at how wrong, how completely, utterly, pitifully wrong he was. 

"No," she whispered, because there was a part of her that did feel vaguely fond of poor pitiful Severus. Fond enough that she wouldn't wish Lucius' anger on him. 

__

I can't think of anyone alive I'd wish Lucius on. Only himself, himself and his master. 

And he hasn't a clue. He was wrong. The great and terrible Lucius Malfoy, and he doesn't even suspect. 

All he can think is that I must be lifting my skirts for someone else. It's all he can imagine I'm capable of doing. 

Oh Lucius, you fool, she thought, with something cold and sharp and terribly vindictive making her chest tighten. For the first time she thought of him wasting to nothing in Azkaban, fading into nothing but a memory of terror and misery, and she didn't have to summon up Draco's face to steel herself, because she wanted it. She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to pay. 

"Not Severus?" he quirked an oh so elegant eyebrow, and it was fuel to the fire. She hoped she got to see the dementors drag him off. She hoped she got to hear him scream. "Are you sure? You used to find him so entertaining. He was so earnest. So naïve." 

She didn't answer. His eyes bored into hers. 

"Very well," he conceded, almost carelessly, dropping his hand away from her face. "You should know better than to think you could bait me this way. Fuck whomever you want. Fuck all of England for all I care. But you had best be discreet in your rutting, or I will kill you both, whomever he is." 

She nodded agreement, swallowing hard, feeling sick not with fear but with triumph. 

__

You blind, pitiful fool. 

He turned to walk away from her, and paused. She hadn't moved. She knew better than to move before he'd actually gone from her sight. 

"Oh, and Narcissa, darling?" he called over his shoulder, and she tensed at his tone, all her malicious vindication melting away. He spun back around, wand aimed at her chest. "Don't refuse to answer me, ever again." 

__

He has to be melodramatic, even standing in his own kitchen, she thought innanely, before the pain of the Crutiatus swept over her like a thousand stinging insects all burrowing into her flesh, and she fell to the floor screaming, all coherent thought vanishing in a white-hot haze. 

***

He was playing Quidditch against Slytherin. It was a warm fall day and the sun was so bright it hurt his eyes, and he could barely see the bludgers that kept flying towards the center of the field. There were at least seven or eight of them, all dark green, and they hissed and muttered when they flew by. He couldn't see George, couldn't see any of the rest of the team, it was too bright. 

"Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall's voice. He looked around for her, and almost missed a bludger. He dove, panicked, knocking it aside with just the tip of his bat only moments before it would have struck its target. 

He sighed in relief. Angelina floated peacefully in the center of the field, arms crossed over her chest, dressed in robes of vibrant red and gold that spilled off the sides of the platform she lay on, fluttering in the breeze like wings. At the four corners of the platform that held her were real, swiftly beating wings of filigreed gold, like those on the snitch. 

Where was the snitch, anyway? Harry needed to catch it. He needed to end the game soon or a bludger was going to hit Angelina. 

"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall's voice came again, more insistent this time, and sounding like it came from everywhere at once. Three more bludgers were hurtling towards them. He moved inhumanly fast, faster than he knew he could possibly move, swatting them aside. He caught a glimpse of Harry, silhouetted against the blinding brightness of the sky, sitting slumped on his broom, head down on his his chest, not even looking for the snitch. Fred didn't know why he wasn't falling off his broom, sitting there, looking almost dead like that. 

"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall's voice insisted, right in his ear, and hands were shaking his shoulders, and just like that the dream burst. He sat up abruptly, almost crashing his forehead into McGonagall's glasses as he did so. 

"Wha?" he muttered dumbly, blinking in the darkness. He glanced around, trying to orient himself. George was sitting up in the bed next to him, looking like he'd had at least a few moments to wake up. 

"About time!" McGonagall snapped crisply. 

"Wha's wrong?" Fred asked, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the wall clock over her shoulder. It said 'much too early, go back to bed'. 

"I need you to come down to the hospital wing," McGonagall said. Fred was suddenly wide awake. He didn't think he'd ever been so wide awake in his life. George grunted in surprise. "Both of you, if you like," McGonagall amended, nodding to George. 

"Is she okay?" Fred demanded, not caring that he was speaking to a professor. "Is she awake? What's happened?"

"Uh? Wha's goin' on?" muttered a sleepy voice from across the room. 

"We're waking your dorm mates, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said primly, going on before Fred had time to make the indigant retort that was on the tip of his tongue. _Who *cares* if we're waking the buggers up! Just tell me if she's okay! _"It really would be best if you could just come with me."

TBC (aren't I evil?) . . . 


	13. Life, or Something Like It

Title: Life, or Something Like It (13/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Hermione gets a letter, Ron gets a date, Narcissa gets a little hope. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

This chapter title is also a movie. I've never seen the movie, I just liked the phrase, but anyway, I wasn't the first person to think of it. 

***

"Well, what's he say?" Ron demanded, trying to lean over Hermione's shoulder. 

"It's personal," Hermione answered shortly, blushing and hunching her shoulders around the letter she'd received, blocking Ron's view with her hair.

"How personal can it be?" Ron asked. "It's just a letter. Bet he writes about nothing but Quidditch."

"He does not write about nothing but Quidditch," Hermione ground out between clenched teeth, but her voice was a little wavery. 

"How's Bulgaria doing, anyway?" Harry interjected a touch too loudly, obviously trying to change the subject. 

Ginny sat across from Ron and next to Hermione at the Gryffindor table, her chin in her hand, drizzling patterns on her plate with the syrup dripping from a piece of waffle, feeling inexplicably melancholy. 

"They're doing very well, thank you for asking," Hermione answered Harry, shooting Ron a very pointed glare. 

"See, told you he writes about nothing but Quidditch," Ron retorted. Ginny popped the piece of waffle into her mouth before it got completely soggy and disgusting. She didn't really taste it, just forced herself to chew and swallow it because she knew she'd be hungry later if she didn't. 

"He does *not*," Hermione insisted. She sniffled. Ginny glanced sideways at her. _She's not going to cry, is she? _

"So then what else does he write about?" Ron pressed on relentlessly. 

"None of your business," Hermione snapped. "I told you, it's *personal*. 

Across the table, Lavendar and Parvati started giggling. Hermione gave them both a nasty look, but that only seemed to encourage them. 

"What?" Ron turned to the snickering pair. "What's so funny?"

"You should know what it means when a girl says a letter's *personal*," Parvati said archly, obviously trying to sound world-wise and sophisticated. In Ginny's opinion it didn't work very well, probably because she was turning pink and stifling giggles as she said it. 

"It means it's, you know, steamy," Lavendar added, lowering her voice on the last word. 

"What?" Hermione exclaimed, her gaze snapping up from the letter to stare goggle-eyed at Lavendar and Parvati. Her eyes were looking a trifle red and watery. "It's not! It's not at all!" Ron was eyeing her suspiciously. 

"You weren't just crying, were you?" he asked. 

"Oh, he's not breaking up with you, is he?" Lavendar asked eagerly. "I mean, how awful. Right before the holidays." She tried to sound contrite, but Ginny thought it was a little too late. She stabbed another piece of waffle and swirled it in syrup, watching the patterns it made and not feeling particularly interested in eating it. 

"Viktor is not breaking up with me!" Hermione exclaimed in clear exasperation, but a tear leaked down her cheek at the same time. 

"Of course he isn't," Harry said placatingly. "It's probably just . . um, I mean . . well, I'm sure there's some other reason Hermione's upset." 

__

Oh, good job, Ginny thought sarcastically. Sometimes Harry still made her feel a little fluttery and warm, but mostly he'd turned into another annoying older brother over the years. 

"He's making her cry," Ron said darkly. "Maybe you should dump him, 'Mione." Lavender and Parvati were giggling again. _Vultures. _

"He's being a perfect gentleman and very sw-sweet," Hermione choked out. 

"I don't believe you," Ron said, frowning.

"Ron -" Harry began with obvious trepidation. 

"Well that's just too bad, isn't it?" Hermione retorted, right over top of whatever Harry might have said. 

Ron lunged across the table and snatched the letter out of Hermione's hands. 

"Ron, don't -!" Ginny burst out, shooting to her feet.

"Ronald Weasley, you give that back right now or I will hex you into next week!" Hermione shouted shrilly. Ginny blinked, turned her head to look sideways at the other girl. She had her wand out. 

"Oh my goodness," said Lavendar breathlessly. 

"Shut up," Ginny snapped. Lavendar's eyes narrowed. 

"Nobody asked *you*, did they?" Lavendar sneered. 

"Who would?" Parvati chimed in. "What would you know about it?" 

"Hey!" Ron turned, still clutching the letter. "Don't talk to my sister like that!" 

"Ron, give Hermione her letter back," Harry said in what Ginny thought was supposed to be a reasonable and persuasive tone. It sounded a little desperate to her. 

"Why should I?" Ron demanded self-righteously. "It's upset her, and I think it's obvious he's .. he's taking advantage!" 

"Taking advantage?" Hermione parroted in indignant disbelief. "It's a *letter*, Ron! It's not trying to get under my skirts!"

"You see?!" Ron exploded, turning to Harry as if expecting support. Harry looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. "She never used to talk like that!"

"She can talk however she wants to!" Ginny said, crossing her arms and glaring at her brother. 

"You don't know anything about it!" Ron retorted. Ginny flushed, feeling the anger rush up her face in a hot wave. _Oh, so Lavendar and Parvati can't treat me like an unwanted little freak, but you can? Is that how it is? _"What?" Ron demanded belligerently at her glaring, clutching the letter tighter. "You'd better not!"

"Yes, yes, we must all die virgins, now give it *back*!" Hermione shouted. Harry sputtered as if he were choking; Lavendar and Parvati slipped from giggles into loud, shrill laughter. 

"You're really going to hex me over a stupid letter?" Ron asked, glowering. 

"In the next ten seconds, if I don't have it back," Hermione said determinedly, pointing her wand. "I'll put you in the hospital wing for a week, I swear I will." 

"Well if that doesn't prove my point I don't know what does!" Ron retorted

"I'm warning you -" Hermione growled. Someone new giggled. Ginny turned around and found herself facing Pansy Parkinson and her usual crew. _Oh, joy. _

"Granger sounds positively dangerous," Pansy said in a scandalized voice, grinning maliciously. 

"Is that what they're teaching in that mudblood's class?" Claudette added. "You're all taking that now, aren't you?" 

"Look, Blaise!" Pansy turned and called over her shoulder. "See what you'll be learning in the mudblood's class? You can learn how to be all psychotic like Granger." 

"She's not psychotic," Ginny snapped out. Hermione just flushed a splotchy red, looking suddenly trapped between Pansy and Ron. _And oh, Ron, are you ever going to get it later! Embarrassing her in front of the Slytherins, I can't think of anything more deserving of a beating . . I'll set Fred and George on you, see if I don't!_

Where are Fred and George, anyway? 

"Well, you would know about psychosis, wouldn't you?" Claudette retorted neatly. 

"Don't you have something better to do?" Blaise muttered, stalking past the other Slytherins with her chin in the air. 

"Oh, we're not as busy as y-you," Jenna Page twittered at Blaise. "We're not trying to learn how to s-slay vampires an-and curse people and -"

"Oh, I didn't mean class, when I said Pansy might have something better to do," Blaise snapped, whirling around to face her housemates. "I meant Malfoy, perhaps? Oh, wait, that wouldn't be something *better* to do, now would it?" 

Ginny blinked. _I've never seen the Slytherins going at each other. _Behind her she heard scuffling, and saw that Hermione had gone over the table after Ron and her letter. 

"Well at least I've got someone," Pansy snapped back. 

"Do you?" Blaise asked cooly. "That's not what I've been hearing." 

"You couldn't get a date with - with Weasley!" Jenna spit out. 

Ron had floated Hermione's letter up over the table, out of her reach, and was wrestling with her for her wand to keep her from zapping it down, while Harry and Neville Longbottom tried ineffectually to separate them. Lavendar and Parvati had scooted halfway down the bench and were staring, wide-eyed and flushed, as if they were getting the treat of their lives. _Where is McGonagall? Or Snape? I can't believe no one's stopping this! _

"Is that so?" Blaise said, quirking a thin, dark brow. She stalked determined up to the Gryffindor table, leaning across Hermione's empty place. "Weasley!" she yelled. 

Ron jumped back from Hermione, slapping his hands down at his sides and putting on his best innocent face. Ginny repressed the urge to laugh at him. When he saw who had shouted, he scowled. 

"I thought you were McGonagall!" Ron said accusingly to Blaise. She shrugged. Hermione took the opportunity to snatch her letter out of the air with a swish and flick of her wand, and stormed from the hall. 

"Sorry," Blaise said, and didn't sound it at all. "I was just wondering if you'd like to go skating on the lake with me this weekend." 

Ron blinked and stared. Harry and Neville blinked and stared. Parvati's jaw dropped, and Lavendar looked like she just might faint from the excitement. 

"What?" Ron asked dumbly.

"She's asking you on a date," Ginny supplied, unable to resist the perfect opportunity to get back at her brother. 

"What for?" Ron asked, looking thoroughly perplexed. 

"Told you," Jenna tittered nastily, and Pansy sniffed in agreement. Blaise's face had gone very blank. 

"Never mind," she said stiffly, backing away from the table. 

"Ron," Neville muttered, "how stupid are you?" Ginny found herself silently agreeing, though she hadn't expected Neville to be the one to say it. 

"What?" Ron sputtered. "I mean - wait!" He hurried around the table after Blaise, who was stalking away. He caught her arm. "I just mean, why? I mean, yes! Really?" 

Ginny didn't hear Blaise's response; it was drowned out by the sound of McGonagall's voice coming from the hall, shouting "_WEASLEY!_" at eardrum-shattering decibals. She flinched, and Ron jumped as if an electric current had gone through him. For a moment she thought Hermione had told, and so, clearly, did Ron, if his ashen expression was any indication. Blaise was watching him with a bemused look on her face. 

Then it was clear that McGonagall hadn't meant Ron or Ginny; Fred and George swooped in through the high doorway on their brooms. Held betweeen them, each twin grasping one chair arm, was someone in a levitating wizarding wheelchair. The wheelchair's occupant was shrieking delightedly as they shot upward through the false sky to skim along the domed ceiling. McGonagall came running in after them, red-faced and panting, followed by Madame Pomphrey. 

Ginny couldn't see who was in the chair until they dove back down towards the Gryffindor table; when she did, she gave a delighted woop of her own, which was rapidly taken up by the rest of the Gryffindors. By the time they set down on the table, between the raspberry jam and the pitcher of pumpkin juice, nearly the entire hall was cheering. 

The person in the chair was Angelina, very much awake, and laughing so hard there were tears running down her face.

***

Narcissa woke to the feel of something cool on her face and her entire body twitching and shivering. She blinked rapidly and tried to sit up; the light was too bright, forcing her eyes shut, and her muscles were not cooperating. She collapsed back on something soft, gasping. She didn't remembering passing out; all she remembered was white hot pain. The pain wasn't entirely gone. 

"Just lay still a bit, Lady," someone murmered. The cool something on her forehead moved away. She heard water sloshing and dripping, then it was back again, colder. A damp cloth, then. Someone was wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. 

__

But who would be doing that for me? 

Narcissa squinted, opening her eyes the just the tiniest crack. She could make out the shape of a woman in plain robes with long, plain, mousy hair. 

__

Mousy . . mouse . . that means something . . oh!

"Draco," she choked out. The woman turned pale hazel eyes on her, questioning. "Is something . . something wrong . . you were following Draco."

"Draco is well, Lady," the animagus murmered, and the soft, cool cloth came towards Narcissa's face again, momentarily blocking out her vision. "Dinky fetched me."

"Dinky?" Narcissa repeated blankly. _What is dinky? _

"One of your house elves," the other woman supplied. The cloth retreated, dipped into a bowl, was wrung out, returned, cool and soothing and distracting. Her hands kept clenching of their own accord and her legs were vibrating like guitar strings. 

__

Why would the house elves fetch her? 

"Why .. why did he -" her jaw clenched painfully shut, grinding her teeth together, and she was powerless to stop it. The tremor moved down her neck, arching her off the bed before it receded. 

__

Oh god . . I don't want to do this again . . it hurts . . 

"She," the animagus corrected, a thin but surprisingly strong hand slipping under the base of Narcissa's skull, lowering her back down to the bed when the spasm eased. "And none of the house elves like your husband very much." 

"Don't know their names," Narcissa muttered. _Why is she taking care of me? No one ever did that before. _

No, not true. Severus. Severus would hold you while you were puking your guts out and not care. You laughed at him for it. 

Oh gods it hurts . . 

"Who's names, Lady?" the mouse-woman asked. The cloth moved across her jaw, pausing at the pulse point in her neck. The coolness spread outward along the pulse.

"House elves," Narcissa rasped out. "You. Anyone." 

__

I don't deserve to have someone here taking care of me, oh god, I can't deal with this, make it stop!

The woman was giving her an odd look. 

"I'm Annette," she said after a pause. 

__

No last name. 

"Don't trust me," Narcissa murmered. _Not that you should. I shouldn't have trusted myself, trusted I could do this, wouldn't get caught, would take whatever came of it, had to do it, but I can't, I'm not strong enough for this, it hurts too bad. _

"What, Lady?"

"Don't trust me with your name," Narcissa explained, and her legs seized all the way up her hips, and she choked on a scream. Hands grabbed her shoulders when she would have shaken off the bed. 

"I don't know it," the Annette said calmly. 

__

She's so tiny shouldn't be strong enough to hold me oh god it hurts!

"You don't know your name?" Narcissa asked, when the clenching muscles released her for another moment. She had to gasp for breath between words. 

__

But talking helps. Severus would talk to me. Potions. He'd quiz me on potions and I'd curse at him but it'd help, it'd distract me. 

Why didn't I marry Severus? 

Because he was pitiful . .just as pitiful as me . . 

"I don't have any living family," Annette explained. "My mother died when I was six. She never told me our real name. We were always using false names."

"Why?" Narcissa asked, beginning to be intrigued. 

"Habit, I guess," the mousy little woman shrugged, dipped the cloth, shifted the sheets away to run it across Narcissa's lower legs. "Our people have had to hide for a long time. There are those -" and her voice took on an edge Narcissa couldn't have imagined that breathy voice holding " - who think we are an abomination."

"Not magic," Narcissa said, realization creeping slowly into her pain-hazed mind. "You said .. the shifting .. wasn't magic."

"It's not," Annette explained. "I can pass for a witch, but I'm not. I'm a shapeshifter. There aren't many of us left." The cloth was held, chill and soothing, against the bottom of Narcissa's feet. 

__

She's done this before, cared for someone after the Crutiatus before. 

"Voldemort?" Narcissa asked. Annette shook her head. 

"Grindelwald," the other woman responded. 

"But . . but that was so long . ." Narcissa protested. 

"There are things it takes a long time to forget," Annette said darkly. "I wasn't alive then, but I still -" she stopped, as if she couldn't finish. 

"You're afraid," Narcissa whispered. A spasm seized her left arm but it was weaker than the last one, and she bit her lip and didn't cry out. 

"Plenty of wizards still think like he did. There aren't enough of us for Voldemort to care about us, but . . I saw my mother killed," Annette explained, softly, voice flat and emotionless. "Not Death Eaters. Just a mob."

"Sorry," Narcissa choked out, as the pain in her arm faded. 

"Don't be," Annette shrugged, and dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, methodical and unaffected. She turned back to Narcissa and their eyes met. "You can't do anything about a mob, can you? But people like Grindelwald, Voldemort, your husband - we can do something about them, can't we?"

__

We. She's talking like my equal. I wonder if she ever thought she was less.

She's not less. She's more. I'm nothing, I don't know why I ever thought I was - 

"I'm scared," Narcissa confessed. 

"I know," Annette murmered, and moved the cloth back over Narcissa's eyes. 

*** 

_Dear Hermione, _

If I hear one more word of apology about Christmas gifts, I'm getting on my broom and flying up there, just so I can shake you. Do you think I care about Christmas gifts? You're alive and unhurt. That's my Christmas gift. 

We got plastered by Scotland just yesterday; it was freezing rain here and I could barely feel my fingers, let alone catch anything. Their seeker got the snitch after three hours with no goals scored. I don't think anyone honestly cared, we just wanted off the pitch - though I can't say that too loudly unless I want Ivanova telling me off, she's determined we're to get back to the World Cup again. I think she's deluding herself, we're not even in the top five right now, and Dimitrov's mind isn't in the game. His wife's having their first baby. He walks around looking like someone's hit him too many times with a bludger half the time. I think Ivanova is going to skin him alive if he doesn't start paying attention soon, but I can't blame him too much. Levski was joking that Ivanova needs to get herself a husband, and you'll be happy to know I didn't laugh at all. I confess that wasn't all just because I am so enlightened; I don't want to be skinned alive too if she overhears. 

Oksana and Ana and Ylena say hello. Well, Ana says hello. Oksana says, "Is she getting herself into messes again? Is that all English girls do?" and rolls her eyes. That means she likes you, or she wouldn't care. Ylena doesn't quite remember you, but I'm sure she'd want to say hello if she did. I forgot to mention in my last letter, she turned three about two weeks ago. Mother made her a huge chocolate cake and she got it in her hair and then ran away and hid because she didn't want a bath. It took us two hours to find her. She was up in one of the mews and had feathers all stuck in the chocolate. 

Oh, and Mother says she's going to write your mother and tell her to give you "a talking to" for being silly enough to worry about Christmas presents. I don't think she really will, but she said so. That also means she likes you. She'd be worried about Christmas presents too. She'd have fits if we didn't have a huge feast and more presents than we know what to do with and every relative and everyone else we ever met all stuffed into our poor little house for at least three days. 

I used to like the holidays. Now it's just my uncles and my cousins all hounding me to hear about the team. They treat me like somebody famous. I hate it. I suppose I am somebody famous but your uncles aren't supposed to treat you that way. Sometimes Oksana yells at them to leave me be, but mostly she's too busy trying to avoid Aunt Leyna, who has five children and is very fat and must have a very dull life because all she ever does is try to marry off the girls so they can get fat and boring too. She's already after Oksana for some boy who works at the deli near where she lives. Oksana is horrified, of course. 

And now you have something you can tease her about when she makes fun of English girls who get into trouble. Ask her if she's gone sledding with Peter lately. Aunt Leyna went sledding with her husband the first time they went out and now she thinks everyone should. If you ever meet her and she asks about sledding, you must tell her that we have been sledding many times. 

Unless you would like to go sledding? You must come visit in the winter sometime. But not when Aunt Leyna is here. 

Say hello to Ron and Harry for me. I hope they and their families are well. Well, actually, from what you've told me of Harry's family, I hope they've all caught the plague. But I hope Harry is well, and Ron and his family, who seemed very nice. 

You're not the only silly one, you know. I can't think of what to get you either. Ana keeps trying to talk me into getting you scarves and necklaces and other things I know you'd hate. You know what I'd like to get you? I'd like to get you a whole different world where nobody cares who's muggleborn and who's not and no one would ever try to hurt you again. There, now you can call me silly and tell me how archaic I'm being and that you don't need some big goon of a Quidditch player trying to act all manly and protect you. Of course you don't. You can take very good care of yourself, I know. But I wish you didn't have to. 

And now I must stop writing and mail this quickly before Oksana comes by and reads over my shoulder, or she will still be teasing me when I am old and white-haired and have a beard down to my knees. 

Love, 

Viktor

TBC . . . 

__


	14. Restraint

Title: Restraint (14/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R - blood and nastiness here

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Draco snaps. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

***

"ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS - PLEASE CHECK THE LISTS!" read the notice in the Slytherin common room. Below that, in smaller script, it instructed, "The names of all students remaining at school for the holidays MUST be on the list marked 'STAYING'. The names of all students leaving for the holidays MUST be on the list marked 'GOING'. Please check that your name is on the appropriate list, and is not on both lists. If you have been listed twice, incorrectly, or not at all, please see your Head of House." 

Below that came, of course, two lists marked 'STAYING' and 'GOING'. 

__

Only Dumbledore would phrase it like that. 

Draco stared tiredly at the lists. His name was exactly where it should be, halfway down the 'GOING' list, right after 'MacMillan' and before 'Midgen'. Malfoy, Draco (5th year, Slytherin). It was not on both lists. It was not forgotten. It was right there where it was meant to be and staring at it wasn't going to make it disappear. 

In one week, two days, and about eight hours, he was going home. A lot of people were going to his home, actually. Malfoy Manor was the location of choice for the final ceremony to welcome initiates fully into the fold. There would be Crabbe and Goyle and Millicent Bulstrode, all to be marked this December 21st. 

__

Oh well, if I'm going to have to get a really ugly tattoo, at least it'll be a *fashionable* ugly tattoo. 

Oh, and I'm to invite Pansy, apparently. She won't be getting a really ugly tattoo; not full Death Eater material, it seems. I wonder if she knows she's the party favors. I wonder what her father thinks of that.

As if he'd have the balls to complain no matter what he thought of it. As if any of them would. They ought to just skip the mark-on-the-arm shit and just fucking castrate you. Maybe stick a tag in your ear, or a ring through your nose. Screw symbolism, let's be literal. I, Draco Malfoy, will have the honor of joining the illustrious ranks of the Dark Lord's fucking cattle. 

And ought to be grateful for the chance. Ought to be sick with bloody fucking gratitude that I was found worthy. Better that than being slaughtered.

Though that is what you keep cattle for. To slaughter them, eventually. Well, not milk cows, but . . oh, screw this. 

He stormed away from the board with its lists and stomped out the common room door into the hallway, hitting it with his elbow so hard it bounced off the wall. He nearly ran into a crush of heatedly whispering females trying to come in through the door. He recognized one of those hushed, scandalized tones immediately. 

"Hello, Pansy," he greeted her cheerfully, grinning. The girls pulled up short, blinking at him a little apprehensively. Pansy crossed her arms below her ample chest, pursing her lips and watching him warily. _I wonder what my face looks like right now. Not all full of goodness and light, I'd guess. _

Or maybe she's still pissed about what I said the other week. 

Well, get used to it, snookums. Such is life. I get a really ugly tattoo. You get to be the milk cow. Personally, I think you got the better deal. 

One of the younger girls was staring at him with huge doll-like eyes, looking like she wasn't quite sure what was going on but she knew it wasn't good. The other was giggling inanely. _And what rock did she find this pair under? She used to at least have taste. _

"Hello, Draco," Pansy said coolly. 

"No kiss?" Draco inquired, quirking an eyebrow. 

"You ought to be glad she's speaking to you," the doll-eyed one leapt to Pansy's defense. 

"Why?" Draco asked her, in his best reasonable and civilized tone. "She doesn't have to talk. Talking's overrated."

Pansy got it immediately, and flushed; doll-eyes just stared, blinking in confusion. 

"Go to hell, Draco," Pansy muttered, but he thought he saw a flash of tears as she pushed past him. Something in his gut screwed up a bit at that. Something else was very pleased. 

"Planning on it!" Draco called into the common room after her, as the giggling little brunette tried to squeeze past him without actually touching him at all. He didn't move. "You're invited too! Malfoy Manor. Solstice night. Don't bring your knickers!" 

"Has anyone told you lately that you're a pig?" inquired another female voice, from behind him. He turned. Blaise Zabini was coming down the hall, with . . _Weasley? _

Zabini and Weasley? Oh, no. The universe is not that unfair. Never was my type really, too mouthy and a bit too inclined to keep her knickers on, but there is something intrinsically wrong with Weasley ending up with that hot a piece of tail. 

Behind them walked Potter and the other, youngest Weasley. _The other, youngest, female Weasley. The one with freckles on her little kinda peachy-colored lips. _She was watching him intently as Potter prattled away about something or other, completely unaware he'd lost her attention. Her brother was also watching him, but it was a very different look; one that wavered halfway between nervousness and dare. _Come on, say it, _that look said. _I'm holding hands with the hottest girl in your house. Make an issue of it. _

Wouldn't I love to. Considering I've never given Blaise a second thought in my life, it's a kinda pathetic excuse to pound someone, but hey, any port in a storm. 

"Not lately," Draco shrugged, and sauntered up to them, giving Blaise his best dashing smile. He stopped just a little too close. Ron's face had started to go that shade of plum that only redheads seem able to manage. 

"Oh, well then, let me remind you," Blaise retorted, smiling sweetly. "You're a pig. Want to get out of my way?"

"Have places to go, people to do?" Draco asked, sliding his eyes towards Ron.

"See?" Blaise said, ignoring Draco and turning to Ron. "This is why I don't date in my own House." She frowned at the murderous expression on Ron's face. "Oh please, you can *not* get in a fight over this. We haven't even gone on a real date yet, you don't need to be defending my honor."

"Take it back," Ron ground out, reaching for his wand. Blaise rolled her eyes, and glanced backwards towards Ginny for help. Ginny was frowning; not the sort of frown Draco had expected. She didn't look outraged; she looked .. _concerned? _

She knows I'm picking a fight. She knows exactly what I'm doing and it's . . worrying her? 

"Is he always like this?" Blaise asked Ginny. Potter seemed to have finally taken notice of his surroundings, and had his wand out. His frown was everything Draco could have wanted. _All righteously outraged. Perfect Potter, defender of all things weak, stupid and pitiful. _

And Ginny. 

Not sure when she got put in a different category but . . she's not. Weak. Or pitiful. Jury's still out on stupid. 

No, not stupid. Maybe Gryffindor too-brave-for-her-own-good style stupid, but not lacking brains. 

"Only on days when the sun rises," Ginny responded, obviously trying for cool humor, but looking a little uncomfortable with the Slytherin girl's sudden camaraderie. Her eyes were flicking to Draco even as she was answering Blaise. She was still frowning. __

"Ah," Blaise acknowledged with a sigh, and turned back to Ron. "We're standing right outside the Slytherin common room. If anybody's going to catch us, it'll be Snape. He'll give you detention and give Draco points for skilled hexing. Think about it." She said it all flatly, like she was discussing the weather. Draco was grudgingly impressed. 

"It's the principle of it," Ron answered tightly, wand still pointed in Draco's direction. "Besides, you're in Slytherin. You can say he started it."

"He didn't start it if you hex him first," Blaise pointed out, very reasonably. 

"What's that have to do with you saying he did?" Ron asked. Blaise tilted her head, considering. 

"Good point," Blaise said a moment later, turning and grinning nastily at Draco. "Very well, hex away. I've never had someone fight for my honor before. This is kinda fun."

Draco stood there. So did Ron. They glared. 

"Well?" Draco asked, spreading his arms wide. "You heard the lady."

"Are you trying to get me in trouble? Is Snape standing just inside the door or something?" Ron accused, face screwing up in confusion. 

"Don't think so," Draco answered. 

"Then what're you just blood standing there for?" Ron demanded. 

"Ron, let's just go," Potter suggested. He'd tucked his own wand back away. 

__

Aw, come on. Somebody throw a hex. I really want to make something bleed today. 

"You're right, he's acting off," Blaise commented, eyeing him closely. Her comments were starting to make Draco feel a little like a bug in a jar. "He's always a smug bastard, but he's not usually a stupid smug bastard. Maybe he's got some sort of charm or ward or something that'll make your hex bounce." 

__

This is just not bloody fair. It's Weasley. He's got way more temper than brains. How is it that I'm not managing to pick a fight with fucking *Weasley*? 

"No wards," Draco insisted. "Come on, Weasley, I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be all brave and noble. You're gonna let me insult your girl and get away with it?"

"I'm getting bored," Blaise commented. 

"Let's just go," Harry said again, tugging on Ron's arm. Ginny was still a few paces back, still just watching, frowning, her books clutched to her chest. 

"You sure you don't mind?" Ron asked Blaise. 

"Not at all," Blaise assured him. "There'll be other opportunities, I'm sure."

__

Oh bloody fucking hell! Come on, how hard is this? Just take a swing at me. You can't just leave. 

Then Blaise leaned towards Ron and gave him a little peck on the cheek. Ron went from purple to a sort of burgundy color. Harry dropped his friend's sleeve and backed away as if Ron had suddenly developed leprosy. Ginny blushed, not as darkly as her brother, just a slight haze of color behind the freckles. Draco had sudden inspiration. 

He marched past Ron and Blaise, right up to the youngest Weasley, and kissed her soundly on her freckled little lips. 

She made a little meeping sort of sound and dropped her books. Her eyes were open wide, shocked. There were little flecks of gold in the brown. Her lips were soft, warm, very tightly closed but that was okay. 

Potter's fist crashing into the side of his face was neither soft nor warm. Stars exploded behind his eyes. _Now that's more bloody like it! _Draco stumbled away from Ginny, who stood still as a statue; he ducked as he heard Weasley shouting something that sounded suspiciously like a full-out curse, not just a hex. Then Potter was in his face again, grabbing his robes by one shoulder and throwing him into the wall. 

"Don't you ever - don't EVER -" Potter was sputtering, incoherent with rage. When the pain in his ribs where his elbow had been crushed into them when he hit the stone wall subsided enough that his facial expressions were again under his control, Draco just grinned. He winked at Ginny. 

She said something. He thought it might have been "stop it," but he wasn't sure, because Harry and Ron both rushed him then. He let his shoulders fall back against the wall and kicked at Potter, hard, catching the Boy Who Lived in the stomach. Weasley's wand was in his face, too close to miss; Draco didn't hear the curse, but he felt immediately like he was being stuck all over with pins. 

He watched Potter stumble and found he suddenly didn't care; not about Weasley, or the pain, or the horrified look on Ginny's face as Blaise tried to pull the other girl away. 

__

Perfect Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The boy that everything was always about, always about Potter, Potter wins the House Cup, Potter defeats the basilisk, Potter gets to be a Triwizard Champion, be nice to Potter, try to win him over, can't let anyone know you don't like Potter, our hero Potter, Potter who defeated the Dark Lord.

Potter whose blood resurrected the Dark Lord. 

He wanted to spill perfect Potter's perfect blood more than he could ever remember wanting anything in his life. It was a hot rush that ran through him, obliterating sanity. 

Draco fell on him, and knew he was hitting the other boy with everything he had, kicking and punching and spitting, no decision or conscious thought involved. He felt fists and feet hitting flesh that gave way, fell, tried to hit back and couldn't match Draco's berserker rage. Somebody was screaming. It might have been Potter. For all Draco knew it might have been himself. 

***

__

Seventeen students, mostly Gryffindors. Well, I suppose that isn't so bad. 

Not everyone wants to start an elective mid-term.

Okay, almost-end-of-term. 

I should have just waited for next term. 

Willow sat down behind the desk at the front of her classroom, eyeing the seventeen desks arranged in three rows before her. It seemed like an awful tiny number of desks. Only one of them was already occupied. Hermione sat in the front row, sipping the cup of hot chocolate Willow had conjured up for her. She had the mug cupped in two hands, and continued to clutch it for warmth after she was done drinking. The dungeons were damp and drafty, and Hermione was a little shaky. 

"Better?" Willow asked. 

"Warmer," Hermione offered. "Less likely to burst into tears."

"That sounds like 'better' to me," Willow suggested. 

"I'm still so mad I can't see straight," Hermione confessed. 

"Understandable," Willow nodded. She'd heard all about the letter incident. 

__

I suspect Ron's harboring some more than best-friendly feelings. I wonder if I should tell her about the clothes fluke incident . . or if that'd make things worse . . somehow I don't think the idea of Ron wanting to be more than a friend would be well-received right now. The idea of Ron turned into something small and amphibious, maybe, but not - 

"Professor!" Willow's thoughts were cut off abruptly by the panicked shout from the doorway. 

"Ginny?" Hermione said worriedly, turning in her chair and frowning. 

Ginny Weasley came skidding into the dungeon classroom, face flushed and panting with exertion and generally looking as if she were being pursued by demons. She was gasping for air, obviously trying to say something but unable to get the words out; that single shout seemed to have used up all the spare breath she had. Blaise Zabini came tearing into the classroom right behind her, stumbling to an awkward halt a moment before she would have run into the younger girl. 

"Potter. Malfoy. Fight," Blaise managed to sputter. "Two floors down." 

__

Ah. Yeah, the running up two flights of stairs will leave you a little winded.

Potter. Malfoy. Fight.

Oh CRAP! 

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "Is he okay?" Ginny was shaking her head as Willow rushed out of the room. 

"- lost it completely," Willow heard one of the girls saying as she sprinted out into the hallway, but she didn't catch which boy had evidently taken leave of his senses. _Great, Harry and Draco beating on each other to a degree that qualifies as "losing it" among kids who regularly hex body parts off each other just 'cause they got annoyed. Great. Wonderful._

Willow heard the fight before she could see it; that was not a good sign. Years of palling around with Buffy had taught her that fighting in real life doesn't sound like fighting in the movies. Very few things make the sort of clean, resounding thump that always comes along with a punch being thrown on TV. Real flesh tends to make more of a dull sort of thwap, and a body hitting the ground isn't nearly as loud as, say, a chair falling over. Bodies are soft. They just don't make that much noise. If there's blood and guts involved the noise is even less, sort of a squelching sound. 

She was hearing a fair number of squelching sounds. That was bad. Very bad. 

"Stop it, you're crazy, get off him, you crazy bastard, you're gonna kill him, stop it, you're crazy -" someone was shouting in a rather panicked litany. Willow rounded the corner at a run. 

The person shouting was Ron. The crazy bastard was Draco. The body providing the blood squelching noises was Harry's. The entire scene was red. Draco's pale face and paler hair were splattered with blood. Ron, standing over Draco and trying ineffectually to pull him off Harry's prone form, was speckled with little dots of dark red fluid. There was a small puddle forming on the floor. 

__

Oh god he might have killed him that's too much blood that's way fucking too much blood oh SHIT 

"STOP!" Willow shouted, hand thrown out, power rushing down her arm and out her fingertips. Draco and Ron were flung backwards away from Harry; the dark-haired boy just lay there and bled. She ran up to him, skidding to her knees in the blood. 

__

Why do I bother buying new clothes? she thought, some other part of her mind recognizing the inappropriateness of the thought as a sign of impending panic. _Nice pretty new green robes to teach in. All professional looking. Yeah. Right. I should just do my whole wardrobe in blood red or black and be done with it. _

Oh god please don't be dead! 

She pressed two fingers to Harry's neck, tight up under his jaw. To her great relief, she found a pulse immediately, but it was slow. 

"Harry!" someone screamed shrilly behind her. Hermione had evidently followed her. Willow lept to her feet, grabbing the younger girl by the arm and trying to block her view of her friend's mangled and bleeding body. 

"Get Madame Pomphrey, now!" Willow ordered. Hermione didn't seem to hear her, trying to wriggle out of her grasp to get to the boy on the floor. _Okay, no time for this crap. _She let the girl go, turning to the other occupants of the hall. Ron was regaining his feet. Draco sat propped up against the wall where he'd fallen, eyes wide, staring at Harry in utter shock. 

"Get Madame Pomphrey!" Willow ordered the red-haired boy. Ron blinked at her for a moment, then nodded, and took off at a run. Willow turned back to Harry and Hermione; or rather, she expected to see the girl at her friend's side. She wasn't. 

__

Oh, hell, Willow thought, turning the other way just in time to see Hermione's fist connecting with Draco's nose, snapping the pale boy's head back so hard it bounced against the wall with a loud, echoing crack. Like the earlier squelching noises, Willow knew that was not a good sound. 

***

__

Why does my head feel like it was repeatedly banged into a wall? 

Oh yeah.

Probably because my head was repeatedly banged into a wall. 

I tried to kill Potter. 

Oh, fucking hell .. 

Draco tried to open one eye to assess his surroundings. His eye of choice, the left one, wasn't cooperating. He tried to work the little muscles that usually resulted in open eyes, but now they just resulted in stabbing pains across his forehead and down his nose, and caused no movement whatsoever from his eyelids. 

__

Oh, wonderful. My eye's swollen shut. 

He tried the other one, and it opened, a tiny painful crack. 

Through that tiny painful crack he saw white, domed ceiling. Hospital wing. 

"He appears to be waking," a familiar deep and grating voice announced. 

__

And Snape is here. Better and better. Couldn't somebody have just avada'd me in my sleep? Is that too much to ask? 

A frowning, faintly wrinkled but kindly face appeared in place of the white domed ceiling.

"Can you hear me?" Madam Pomphrey asked briskly. 

"Yes," Draco tried to say. It came out more like "eth", somewhere between a wheeze and groan. He coughed, and instantly regretted it as something in his chest siezed up in agonizing protest. That only made him cough harder. Madam Pomphrey tsked loudly, vanished, reappeared with a tiny jar of something minty smelling that she shoved under his nose. It burnt his one open eye, but it calmed his throat and stopped the coughing. He collapsed back against the pillow. 

"You're lucky to be alive," Madam Pomphrey informed him crisply. "Now lay still, don't move, and don't talk."

"Potter," Draco rasped out. 

"What did I just tell you? Do. Not. Talk!" Madam Pomphrey ordered, and then bustled away, out of Draco's narrowed field of vision. 

"Potter is alive," Snape informed him, leaning his sallow, hook-nosed face into Draco's view. "You are very fortunate there as well." 

__

I didn't kill him, then. 

I wanted to kill him. There was screaming..

I made the screaming happen. I lost it. I still lost it with the screaming and the blood but I didn't throw up, I beat someone almost to death. 

The image of Potter raising a bloody-knuckled hand in front of his face, trying to ward off a blow, rose fresh and new in his mind, as if his brain had recorded it for later use but he'd never really experienced it the first time around. All he *remembered* was rage, pure red fury, and screaming, then nothing, then shock. Potter's body on the ground. All the blood. He didn't remember the point where he'd beaten Potter so badly that it wasn't a fight anymore, it wasn't two people, it was just him and this thing on the ground that broke and gave way too easily, too quickly, not enough, never enough for how bad, how inescapable everything had gotten . . 

"Didn't want to . . not to kill him . ." Draco croaked. _But I did. I wanted to end him. Wanted to end everything. Wanted to make the whole fucking world bleed. _

"In the future, if you do not wish to kill a person, you should perhaps refrain from beating their skull in," Snape commented. 

Something wet was running down Draco's face, and it wasn't blood. It stung, like salt in a wound. _I'm crying, oh fuck it all I'm crying. _

I don't want to be like this, please, I don't want to be my father, I don't want any of this, I just want it to end, just end it, somebody just make it stop. 

Something dabbed at his face; he blinked through the tears, and saw Snape's hand retreating with a handkerchief. It was such an un-Snape-like gesture that it shocked him a tiny ways out of his misery, made him pay attention 

"Is there anything you wish to tell me?" Snape asked, and the tone was oddly careful. 

__

No, nothing I can tell you. Can't ask if you'd please go talk to my father, good buddies that you are, if you could please ask him if he'd mind terribly much if his only son and heir didn't take the Dark Mark after all? Would that be okay? You wouldn't *mind*, would you? 

Draco said nothing. Snape sighed, and it sounded very tired. 

"Very well," Snape nodded. "If you were to change your mind, my office is always open to the students of my house." He paused, seemed to weigh his next words. "Things are not always as they appear, Draco. There are ways out, even when you can see none."

Draco blinked, with the one eye that would.

__

Why on earth would Snape be saying that?

He's in as deep as you can get. 

Isn't he? 

But Snape had already gone before Draco could think of a way to ask the question that wouldn't give too much away. 

***

Willow stood in front of her desk as fifteen students shuffled into the classroom, two hours later than the class had originally been scheduled. Harry was still in the hospital wing; Hermione had locked herself in her dorm and was not coming out for anything short of the appearance of Voldemort himself. The rest were subdued, murmuring amongst themselves. 

Blaise and Ginny had their heads together, whispering, made sudden friends by shared trauma; Ron was seated to Blaise's other side looking pale and a little dazed. Colin Creevy sat beside Ron, and he kept glancing towards the door, as if he expected a miraculously-recovered Harry to walk through it at any moment. Next was an empty seat, saved by Neville Longbottom for Hermione, just in case she changed her mind. Fred and George Weasley flanked Angelina Johnson in the next row back. Cho Chang was seated next to George with Roger Davies on her other side, both of them looking bored and a little uncomfortable, as if they felt out of place. There were a few more faces around the room that Willow didn't know, but the badges on the robes were Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, two each.

__

Here goes . . 

"Well, I had a lesson plan," Willow announced. Thirteen sets of eyes turned to her; Colin was still watching the door. "You were going to tell me how these objects -" she gestured to her desk, which held a full salt shaker, a pocketbook, a piece of smokey quartz and an old umbrella with a wooden handle "- could be used as weapons. There's been a change of plans, though. I'm assigning that for homework." 

Cho dipped her quill and jotted something down; everyone else just kept staring expectantly. 

"New plan for today; you're learning physical and magical means of restraining someone. Everybody pair up." 

TBC . . . 


	15. The Last Day

Title: The Last Day (15/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: See title. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

I'm fudging the timing of Hanukkah to coincide with the beginning of the Hogwarts winter holidays, which I wanted to start on Solstice for symbolic purposes. Hopefully this is not too offensive to anyone, considering this is written in a year that doesn't technically exist (2001 in Scoobyland, 1995 in the Potterverse, by canon timelines). I'm not intending to offend anyone, so I'm apologizing in advance if anyone's upset by it. 

***

"It cannot possibly have been that bad," Ginny said, frowning, pulling the ice pack away from her brother's face. 

"You're right," Ron lisped out. "It was worse."

"You just fell," Ginny retorted, eyeing his bruised nose critically and renewing the cooling charm on the ice pack before handing it back. 

"I fell on my *face*," Ron insisted miserably, only it came out sounding more like "fath". "I fell on my bloody *nose*."

"At least yours isn't broken," Harry suggested. 

"It's not the same thing," Ron muttered. 

"Oh, yes, because a bloody nose from falling on the ice is so much more traumatic than having your skull fractured," Ginny snapped back. 

"Harry got beat up by Malfoy the budding sociopath," Ron answered, sounding indignant.

"Exactly," Ginny responded. "That's much worse."

"He got thrashed worse," Ron argued, "but at least he's got some dignity left!" 

"Can I trade that?" Harry asked of no one in particular. "Just a little of it. Maybe a portion equivalent to a few of my ribs." 

"Whereas you might as well resign yourself to life as a recluse right now, because you fell while skating," Ginny said tonelessly. She tried to check her brother's nose again, but he jerked back away. 

"Stop fussing!" 

"Well it doesn't do any good if it's not actually cold!" 

"I don't need my little sister fussing over me! You're worse than Mum!"

"If the swelling's not down by tomorrow you'll have to deal with Mum, *and* explain how you got it." Ron slumped in defeat, handing over the ice pack. 

"Why wouldn't you want your mum to know you fell on the ice?" Harry asked, perplexed. 

"Because he fell on the ice snogging Blaise Zabini," Hermione interjected from across the near-empty common room; most of the students had congregated in the great hall, exchanging gifts and goodbyes on the last day of the term. 

"I was not snogging her," Ron objected loudly. "Ow!"

"Well if you'd hold still I wouldn't have bumped it," Ginny tsked in exasperation, trying to adjust the ice pack around her brother's nose so it would also provide a little comfort to the growing bruise on his cheekbone. 

"Just give it here!" Ron snatched the pack away from Ginny.

"Oh, fine! Just go ahead and grow a whole face full of bruises, then!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands and going to sit down across from Hermione, who had her head bent over a parchment. 

"Gonna tell Viktor all about?" Ron demanded.

"No," Hermione said coolly. "I don't think he'd be interested. He did ask how you were patching up, though, Harry."

"Oh," Harry said awkwardly. "Um, well, thanks. To him, I mean. Tell him that's . . nice. I'm okay."

"Your nose still isn't the same shape," Ron contradicted him. 

"It's not likely to be the same shape again," Harry said with a shrug, raising a hand to his face to run a finger over the new bump across the bridge of his nose. 

"It looks fine," Hermione said reassuringly. Ginny put her chin down on her arms on the table, watching Hermione's quill flowing over the paper in neat little swirls, the angle of view too great for the words to be legible.

"I guess," Harry said, sounding doubtful. Ginny glanced sideways at him. _It looks sort of . .rugged, actually. A bit handsome. I don't think I'll be saying that, though. _

I wonder if I'll see Draco on the train tomorrow. 

Not that I'll be saying anything to him either. 

Nothing like . . I think I understand. Or like, you need to tell someone. 

Or like, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm the one person in the world who's had an inside view of Voldemort's brain, and I haven't the faintest clue what to do with it, and I'm sorry that means he's come back and your father's probably making you do something horrid to do with him. I'm sorry it's the holiday tomorrow and I've got the dreadful feeling that means time's up, and I still haven't figured out what to do about what I think might be happening. 

I'm sorry you can't handle it. I'm sorry Harry's nose got bent into a new shape because you can't handle it. I'm sorry Harry almost died and I'm sorry you almost killed him and I don't know who to feel worse for. 

And I'm sorry for me. I'm sorry for me that my friends and my brothers are such stupid gits that I can't tell a single one of them about this, because they'd just be like 'Draco's an almost- murdering little git, Gin, who cares?'

'But Gin, it's Draco. How can you know something bad's happening to him? He's like this all the time.'

'What would you know about it anyway, Gin?'

Lots of things I wish I didn't, that's what. And Ron's worried 'cause he fell in front of Blaise, who I can't imagine gives a damn and probably thought it was cute. 

It'd be nice if it could just be Christmas and happy for a bit . . 

But it won't be. I don't know how I know that, but it won't be. 

"Really, Harry, it's hardly noticeable," Hermione insisted. 

"Says the girl who's dating Viktor Krum," Ron commented. 

"And I've never fallen on my face doing it, either," Hermione retorted smoothly.

"Doing it?" Ron choked.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Hermione said archly. 

"No!" Ron exclaimed. "It'd give me nightmares!" 

"Your nose looks fine, Harry," Ginny interjected. "And unlike some people's, it's sitting in front of a functional brain, even." _How can they care about something so stupid, for Merlin' sake, Harry could have died . . can't they see that something dreadful's going to happen, can't they feel it? How can they be so . . so . . _

"What'd I do to *you*?" Ron demanded. "Now you're sniping at me too? Let's everybody pick on the bloke with the bloody nose!" 

At that exact moment Lavendar and Parvati came in through the portrait door, arms laden with partially unwrapped gifts in all shapes and sizes. Parvati had a bright green foil bow on top of her head, and Lavendar was sucking a candy cane. Both girls stopped dead, staring at Ron, who flushed scarlet. 

"Hello Lavendar, Parvati," Hermione said sweetly, eyes still on the half-finished letter in front of her. "Happy Christmas." 

"What? Oh, yes - merry Christmas," Parvati responded, still eyeing Ron. Lavendar giggled around her candy cane. "There wasn't another fight, was there?" Hermione opened her mouth to respond. 

"Yes!" said both Harry and Ginny simultaneously, and a little too loudly. Hermione blinked and looked up from her letter, giving Ginny a vaguely betrayed look. 

"Oh, with who?" Parvati asked. Lavendar shuffled over to a chair and dropped her bundle of gifts, freeing her hands so she could take the candycane from her mouth. "Are you in very much trouble?" she asked Ron. 

"Uh -" Ron stammered. "No. Uh, no, not much trouble." 

"That's a matter of perspective," commented Hermione. 

"It wasn't a *fight*, really," Ginny tried frantically to think of an explanation. 

"Just sort of a scuffle," Harry added. 

"Nothing that would be trouble, it was just -" she tried to think of something plausible. _That'll teach you to jump right in with some story you haven't even thought out . . thinking on the spot is not for you, Ginny dear. Best leave that to - _"Fred and George!" she burst out. 

"Your brothers?" Lavendar asked, scrunching up her own pert little nose. 

"Your brothers gave you a bloody nose?" Parvati frowned. 

"Well, they didn't mean to," Harry said. "Like we were saying, it was just sorta -"

"Just playing around," Ginny added on, nodding. "Nobody was meant to get hurt."

"Oh," said Parvati, sounding disappointed. 

__

I hope that's still better than falling on the ice on a date. The logic of boys and gossips escapes me. 

Not that I know why I'm bothering. I was just thinking how stupid this was, just two seconds ago. Oh well. Happy Christmas to you, Ron. 

The portrait door creaked open again. Fred was steering Angelina's levitating wheelchair through the opening. Ginny noticed she was wearing a new, very pretty necklace that looked like it was made up entirely of tiny gold snitches, and she was beaming. 

"Happy Christmas!" Angelina called out cheerfully to the room at large. "Oh, I have presents for everyone! Can you get them from my room?" she turned and asked Fred. "Everything's in the third bureau drawer." George stomped in behind them, looking considerably less festive, and flopped down on the nearest available couch. 

"Sure," Fred responded amiably. "Hey Ron, what happened to your face?" 

"What?" asked Lavendar, clearly perplexed. 

"Er - ah - " Ron stuttered. 

__

And joy to the world, thought Ginny. 

*** 

"I suppose that will have to do," Willow heard Snape's dry voice snarling in a distinctly disgusted tone, even before she came around the corner. 

"Y-yes Sir!" stuttered a terrified-sounding student. 

"Well, get going then! Unless you'd like to stay the holiday and finish?" Snape threatened. 

"N-no Sir!" the student exclaimed. "I'm g-going, Sir!" 

Willow was nearly bowled over by a hastily retreating Neville Longbottom as she stepped in through the Potions' classroom door. He stumbled, throwing himself sideways trying to avoid a collision, eyes rounding even further than usual. 

"And do refrain from running down Professor Rosenberg!" Snape hollared. 

"S-sorry!" Neville squeaked, and ran. Willow frowned after him, before crossing her arms and turning her disapproving expression on Snape. 

"Why are you so mean to that kid?" she demanded. 

"If you're here to berate me about my ethics in teaching, I have better things to do," Snape snapped, gathering up the remains of Neville's detention project; a stack of badly charred cauldrons in need of scrubbing. 

"And a great big cheery 'happy holidays' to you too," Willow retorted, plopping herself down in a chair and putting her chin in her hands. "But really, I don't get it."

"I despise the holidays," Snape answered, "and I do not suffer incompetence." He tossed a half-scrubbed cauldron in the sink and began scrubbing it vigorously.

"Parkinson is incompetant," Willow pointed out. "Also that Brown girl - not the brightest bulb, you know? You don't go after them like you go after that poor Longbottom kid. And what's wrong with the holidays?"

"Thank you for pointing that out," he ground out, attacking the charred cauldron with unnecessary vigor. "In the future I will be certain to pay particular attention to the deficiencies of Brown and Parkinson. And because they are vapid, largely meaningless and commercialized celebrations based in illogical and outmoded supersitious beliefs that no one's truly honored in centuries." 

"But that doesn't explain why you *notice* Longbottom's mistakes more. I mean, I swear, you've got like, Longbottom radar." She paused a beat. "Okay, take that the way I meant it and not the way it actually sounded in words. And you know, I'm kinda with you on the holidays, actually, but . . well, but I like them," she finished in a pout. 

Snape didn't answer; he finished the first cauldron, rinsed away the soot and grime that had been dislodged from it, and set it upside down on the counter with a heavy leaden thump. 

__

Well, somebody's in a mood that just doesn't say 'invite me over for dinner.'

Isn't that just annoying. Figures. I get up the nerve to do the whole actually asking for a formalized getting-together thing again, as opposed to just showing up, and he's in jerk-person poophead mode. 

Not that it's that big a deal. I mean, not like a *date* kinda big deal or anything. It's just a friendly formal getting-together. But not too together. 

I think. 

I don't want to eat in the big old half-empty great hall tomorrow night. I want cozy little dinner in my cozy little rooms with some company. It'll be the first day of holiday and it's all festive. Well, it's all festive if you're not the Snape Who Stole Christmas. 

And it has nothing to do with him having this to-die-for sexy voice or his nasty sense of humor that I feel bad for finding way hysterical or the way I sometimes think he looks at me 'cause hello, I like girls. Girl. One girl. Tara. Things will get better, I will get better, we'll defeat this Voldemort person and I'll go back and I'll try to make things right with her. Because I love Tara and I do not get the hots for men anymore. 

Except that I don't miss her as much as I should. 

Another cauldron clunked down on the counter with unnecessary force. 

__

I ought to be miserable. It's Hanukkah, it's Solstice tomorrow, and it's almost Christmas . . and I'm here all girlfriendless . . and I'm not thinking, 'I need Tara.' 

I don't want to be alone for tomorrow night. I think that could get really depressing. But not having her in particular here . . isn't automatically equivalent to being alone. 

I love her. I love her so much . . but not so bad it hurts, anymore. 

That's a good thing, isn't it? Lack of hurt? Lack of hurt is usually good. 

But I miss the missing her. 

Ugh. And this is why maintaining human contact through the holidays is a good thought. Aloneness bad. Leads to thinking. Thinking bad. 

The grating sound of cauldrons being scoured within an inch of their metaphorical lives paused. Willow looked up. Snape still had his back to her. 

"There is weakness in him," Snape said finally. 

"What?" Willow asked, lost. 

"Longbottom. In his blood. He's .. weak." 

"Oh," Willow responded, considered for a moment. "What?"

"You know about his parents," Snape said flatly, but he waited for her to affirm the assertion. 

"Yeah," she answered. "They're insane in St. Mungo's. They were tortured and .. and they broke. But that's awful!" she exclaimed. "You can't hold it against the poor kid that his parents went crazy under torture! That's - that's -"

"I am not holding it against him," Snape practically growled, throwing the scouring pad into the sink and turning towards her. "If I held it against him, I'd bloody well ignore him. Let him bumble his good-natured way through life oblivious to the harshness of the world until something nastier than I am comes along and eats him for afternoon tea!" 

Willow snapped her mouth shut. 

"They were very pleasant people, the Longbottoms," Snape ranted on. "You'd have liked them. Very good, moral people. I doubt they ever raised their voices to anyone in their cheery, pleasant little lives." 

__

But that can't be right, Neville's father was an Auror, and from what I've seen of Aurors, the job involves a little voice-raising . . but then again, I'm thinking reality is not really in the picture at the moment.

This would be about pain. 

"And they knew," Snape spat out, "they *knew* that help was coming!"

"You told them somehow," Willow guessed. 

"Yes," Snape hissed. "And the help arrived in time. They were alive. We got them out alive. But -"

"But they didn't survive," Willow finished again. He just stared at her. Then he straightened, seeming to collect himself, the raw emotion in his eyes shutting down as if someone had flipped a switch. 

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "This is not your concern. I -"

"No, stop that!" Willow interrupted, standing and moving around the desk towards him. She stopped a few feet away, watching him watch her. _I'm thinking I'm not the only one who shouldn't be allowed much alone time right now. _"It is. My concern. I'm concerned."

"Why?" he asked flatly. 

"Because," she said, taken a little aback, annoyed at the faintly petulant note of defensiveness in her voice. "Just because I am." _And I'm not ready to consider why that is, and you're not going to push me!_

"I've tortured people," Snape said in that same toneless voice. 

"Kinda figured that out," Willow shrugged. "I mean, duh, you were all dark magic guy. But, you got better. And besides, me too. Tortured people, I mean. Well, not people, more like a god, but that's not the -"

"You tortured a god?" Snape asked incredulously. 

"This thing with the Longbottoms, it happened around the holidays, didn't it?" Willow asked. "And more like tried to. With the god-torturing, that is. It's not like I did a good job of it, or anything." 

Snape just blinked at her. 

"Okay, stop that!" Willow snapped. "'cause I'm about to ask you to dinner tomorrow and you're doing the head-trauma style staring again and you did that when I asked you out for coffee and you're making me nervous!" 

He stared, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not nice," Willow grumbled.

"But you're asking me to dinner," Snape reminded her. 

"Well, yeah."

"Yes, it was," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"The Longbottoms. December 23rd," Snape explained. 

"I'm sorry," Willow answered, wincing at the thought of a family waiting home on almost Christmas Eve for people who'd never really return. Neville as a baby, somebody must have been minding the baby . . _the world just sucks sometimes. _

"I don't deserve anyone's pity," Snape retorted. "It wasn't my loss."

"I know," Willow said, "but . . I'm just sorry." He sighed heavily. 

"Then I'm sorry I've burdened you with this," Snape said, though he sounded more exasperated than sorry.

"Make it up to me," Willow suggested. "Come to dinner." _Oh, I didn't just say that. How tactless am I? Here I am dealing with this big emotional trauma of his and I'm all yeah, let's just use that as a ploy to get him to . . what? Let you cook for him?_

Talk? Bare his soul? Make you feel like you mean something to someone?

Oh, I didn't just think that, either. 

There was a long and awkward pause. 

"Do you prefer red or white wine?" he asked. 

***

"She *what*?" Maggie Granger exclaimed, nearly dropping the plate of casserole she was carrying out to the table. 

"Punched a boy," her husband Herbert repeated. "Professor Dumbledore seems to think she had, and I quote, 'sufficient provocation to mitigate the severity of the infraction.' Evidently the boy she punched had just done quite a job on that Harry fellow she's friendly with."

"She punched someone," Maggie repeated, the concept not quite sinking in. "With a fist? She didn't do some spell on him or something?" She dropped into a chair, setting the cassarole down only halfway on the table.

"He says 'punched,'" Herbert confirmed. "She has a detention, first week of the new term." He paused. "I suppose this means we should ground her or something." 

"I can't believe she actually *hit* someone," Maggie insisted. "Let me see that!" She reached for the letter on heavy parchment. 

Her hand had just touched the paper, her thumb brushing across the embossed wax Hogwarts seal, when the lights blinked out. She yelped, startled. 

"Well, that's a bother," Herbert complained, and she heard his chair squeak on the floor as he stood. "Wonder what that's about." Maggie laid the letter down on the table and stood carefully, feeling along the edge of the table to the wall, and easing towards the window by sense of touch. She pulled back the heavy shades, and frowned in the darkness. 

"The neighbor's lights are still on," she said, puzzled. 

"Where did we put the flashlight?" Herbert called from somewhere across the room. 

The window shattered inward. 

TBC . . 


	16. Shatter

Title: Shatter (16/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R - there will be character death in this chapter, and violence, and the implication of abuse of all sorts. I'm not gonna tell you who, 'cause you'll know in about 10 pages anyway, but I hate it when authors don't warn you, so . . consider yourself warned. This chapter ain't about hugs and puppies. 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: I don't think this one summarizes very well. See title. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

I'm fudging the timing of Hanukkah to coincide with the beginning of the Hogwarts winter holidays, which I wanted to start on Solstice for symbolic purposes. Hopefully this is not too offensive to anyone, considering this is written in a year that doesn't technically exist (2001 in Scoobyland, 1995 in the Potterverse, by canon timelines). I also hope Willow's rather casual approach to the mingling of religious ideas doesn't offend - I think it's true to the canon character, and is not meant to reflect on anybody else's beliefs. I'm not intending to offend anyone, so I'm apologizing in advance if anyone's upset by it. 

***

"You haven't aged a day," the rasping, terrible voice hissed. Lips, cold and alien as the touch of moth wings, brushed the back of her hand. She trembled, and hoped it would be interpreted as awe. "Lucius must have taken very good care of you." 

"Y-yes, my Lord," Narcissa whispered, not looking up from where her head was bowed almost to the floor. _This thing isn't human. Not human at all, he's some demented thing that shouldn't even exist._

Can he read my mind? Can he feel the tension . . can that snake's tongue taste what I'm about to do, taste it on the air like an animal . .

Oh god so close . . so close, please, please don't let him know . . 

Her hand was unceremoniously dropped. She heard the thing stand, its robes rustling against dry serpentine skin.

__

Please . . !

"Now, about the matter of your son, Lucius," Voldemort said, and Narcissa bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from sighing in relief. _He doesn't know. Just like that, I'm dismissed, forgotten. _

"He will be presented tonight for your approval, my Lord," Lucius said carefully. Narcissa didn't move, still kneeling; no one had given her permission to rise. 

"Of course he will," Voldemort snapped. "Why else am I here? Don't be an idiot, Lucius, it tries my patience." 

"My deepest apologies, Lord," Lucius answered, and that so-proud voice was tinged through with things Narcissa recognized all too well. _Fear. Anger. Wounded pride. Desperation, trying to think one step ahead. But mostly fear. _

"Your son seems a trifle .. overzealous, Lucius," the Dark Lord said, in a faintly mocking tone. "Does he think to curry favor with me? I would have been most displeased if the Potter boy had been killed in a mere schoolyard brawl."

Narcissa flinched. The letter had arrived from Hogwarts last night. Draco had a fight with Harry Potter. Draco nearly killed Harry Potter. He was permitted to sit his final exams, but the Board of Governors would be convening in the new term to discuss his continued attendence at school. 

__

Did I wait too long?

No, I can't think that way. It's just the tension of waiting, or he was trying to prove himself, or .. or something. Something that means my son is not a monster yet. 

"I'm sure he meant nothing - nothing but respect -"

"Don't babble, Lucius." 

"He will be punished!" Lucius exclaimed in a near-panicked rush. _Oh, you pathetic, spineless bastard . . he's your son . . doesn't it even matter that he's your son? _"If you wish it, my Lord, he will be -"

"What are you still doing here?" Voldemort interrupted Lucius. Narcissa thought she could almost feel his red inhuman eyes boring into the top of her skull.

"N-no one t-told me to leave," she whispered. 

"Leave!" Voldemort ordered in a shrill, irate hiss. Narcissa scrambled to her feet and fled from the room running; she didn't stop until she'd slammed the door to her bedroom shut behind her, flushed and panting despite all her carefully wrought beauty charms. 

"Is something wrong, L-lady?" Annette asked worriedly, and the first few words were barely comprehensible squeaks as she shifted into human form, appearing from behind the draperies. "What has happened?" 

"Nothing," Narcissa gasped out. She stood a moment with her back to the door, just sucking in air, wringing her hands. She spied the washstand across the room and flew to it, scrubbing her hands, then shoving her sleeves up and scrubbing up her arms, splashing the water on her face. "It's just .. I didn't remember .. I don't think that before he was so .. so . .and they were talking about Draco, talking like he was some *thing*, some poorly trained animal, and -" she reached for the pitcher to refill the wash basin, and it slipped from her soapy hands. It clattered to the floor but did not break. _Of course not, everything in this house is charmed against breaking, isn't it? _

I need a charm against breaking. 

Water spilled out on the plush rose-colored carpet, turning it the deep red of freshly shed blood. Annette crossed the room with dainty, mousy little steps and righted the pitcher. 

"I'm so clumsy," Narcissa murmured. 

"Just a little longer," Annette answered. 

"What if it doesn't work?" Narcissa asked in a whisper.

"It will," the other woman answered firmly, then hesitated. "But . . do you think it might be better to wait? The spell -"

"No," Narcissa cut her off. "No, it has to be tonight." The panic of moments before was fading, leaving in its wake a sort of numb resolve. _They were talking about him like a toy, a chess piece, a thing . . _

They won't use him like that. Not ever. I won't let them. 

"It's ritual magic," Annette pressed. "I mean no disrespect, Lady, but you haven't . . well, I haven't seen you do much magic at all, ever. The wizard that sold it to me, he laughed at me. It's blood magic, Lady, and he seemed to think I was getting in awfully far over my head, and he's somebody I knew back when I was picking pockets on the street, Lady, he knows I'm clever -"

"But you're not a witch," Narcissa said.

"But he *doesn't* know *that*," Annette retorted. "I'm just saying . . if you'd rather wait until we're more sure -"

"Draco can't wait," Naricssa insisted. 

"I know, I know, Lady, but . . " Annette hesitated here, biting her lip in obvious trepidation, something Narcissa hadn't seen her do in weeks. Never since she'd revealed her secret. " - but are you sure it's not . . I mean, the letter from Hogwarts, are you sure -"

__

Are you sure he's not one of them already, hung unspoken in the air. 

"The house elf you told me about before, she's ready? She's not going to lose her nerve?" Narcissa asked, forcing her voice to calm. Annette sighed. 

"No, Lady," she answered in very resigned tone. "No, I don't think she'll lose her nerve. She's got the easiest job of all today." 

"Then here," Narcissa said, and handed an elaborately engraved gold key over to the shapeshifter. "Get everything from the vault. There's not much time." 

***

"Myrtle!" Ginny hollered, stamping her foot. "Myrtle, come on, you're going to make me miss the train!" 

There was no response. Ginny crossed her arms and sighed; it echoed loudly around the girls' bathroom. 

__

Stupid, self-pitying, melodramatic ghosts! 

"Well fine!" she shouted after a long pause. "It was going to be a *surprise*, but I've got you a present! And you aren't getting it if you don't come up here this instant!" 

There was a wooshing sound from one of the stalls.

"Well maybe I don't want a present," Myrtle whined petulantly, floating over the stall door. "What good are presents when you've got no one to share them with? When everyone else goes home to their happy, living families and leaves you all alone and -"

"Here!" Ginny shoved a hastily wrapped, faintly wriggling package at the ghost. Myrtle drew away, clearly affronted. 

"Well that's just rude!" the ghost exclaimed. "You know I can't hold things that are - oh!" Myrtle cut off abruptly as a faint, diaphanous shape wriggled its way through the wrapping paper - not out of it, but literally through it. 

The little rat stood up on its translucent hind legs and sniffed at Myrtle, twitching delicate whiskers. 

"Crookshanks caught it in the dungeons, and it must have been a magic sort of rat, 'cause well -" Ginny gestured at ghostly form. "Anyway, I thought you might like a pet." 

"Oh," said Myrtle again, sounding positively stunned. She held out a hand. The rat crawled onto it. Myrtle giggled. "Is it a boy or a girl?" the ghost asked. 

"I dunno, you look," Ginny said, scrunching up her nose. "But - you like it?" 

"Oh, yes, it's lovely," Myrtle answered distractedly, holding the faintly glowing little creature up to her face and peering at it. The rat tilted its head to one side. Myrtle tilted her head to the other. It stretched forward and took a tentative nip at her glasses; Myrtle gave a delighted little shriek. 

"Merry Christmas," Ginny said, feeling rather pleased with herself. _I don't know that I've seen Myrtle this cheerful in . . well, ever. _She waited for the ghost to respond in kind; Myrtle was much too busy petting the rat's once-brown, now vaguely bluish coat.

__

I wonder what a ghost feels like to another ghost?

"I really am going to miss the train if I don't move along," Ginny reminded her. 

"M-hrmm," said Myrtle, giggling again when the rat licked her nose. 

"Bye then," Ginny shrugged, and hurried out of the bathroom and towards the stairs. _Well, at least that went well. About time something did. _

A figure brushed past her, headed in the other direction, towards the dungeons. A figure with white-blonde hair and gaunt, hunched shoulders. Ginny felt her heart leap into her throat. The hallway was otherwise empty, nearly everyone else having already left for Hogsmeade station.

__

Last chance. 

Before she was even quite sure what she was doing, she'd reached out and grabbed Draco's arm. He spun around; startled, angry grey eyes met her own. When he recognized her, his expression slipped into a leer.

"Can't keep your hands off me now, eh, Weasley?" Draco purred, but there was almost nothing sexual in it, it was just angry, so horribly angry that Ginny wondered why her hand wasn't burning to a crisp just from touching him. 

"Don't go home," she blurted out. The leer slipped. 

"What?" he asked. 

"Just - just don't go home," Ginny repeated, still holding his arm and not sure how to let go without giving the impression of flinching away. She wanted to hug her arms across her chest and shiver from the look on his face, but didn't. 

"Let go, Weasel," he said finally, jerking away from her. He turned and all but ran in the other direction.

"Ginny?" a voice called hesitantly from behind her. "Was that - oh, Ginny, what's wrong?" Hermione exclaimed, rushing up to the younger girl and enveloping her in a hug. "Did he do something to you? What happened?" 

"No," Ginny sniffled, pulling back and wiping at the frustrated tears that wouldn't stop pouring out of her eyes. "N-no, he didn't d-do anything, it's just . . it's just nothing. It's nothing." 

"Oh," said Hermione, looking perplexed. "Are you sure? I won't tell Ron." Ginny laughed at that, but it wasn't a happy sound. 

"No, really, it's nothing," she insisted a little more firmly. "I just bumped into him is all."

"If you're sure," Hermione answered doubtfully. "Well, I just came to tell you Ron's taken your stuff down to the train, so you don't have to go back up and get it. He was afraid you wouldn't have time. Did Myrtle like her present?"

"She loved it," Ginny answered tonelessly, scrubbing at her face, hoping to rub away the blotchiness before any of her brothers saw her. 

***

Draco watched out the window as the landscape flew by, pale and hazy with a faint dusting of snow coming down. It was late afternoon. He sat hunched up against the glass, arms folded, glowering at the passing trees and fields and the occasional muggle house. Pansy sat next to him, stiff as a board, reading a magazine. She hadn't spoken in three hours; he wondered why she bothered with the pretense of sitting next to him. They didn't have to sit together, just get off the train together. 

On the other bench, Crabbe and Goyle were vastly entertained by punching one another repeatedly in the shoulder, occasionally muttering something like, "good shot", or "you hit like a bloody girl". Their spirits were obviously not at all dimmed by the thought of the coming night's festivities. _Either they're thrilled, or just too stupid to realize they should be worried._

Yeah. Worried. 

Or, you know, petrified, disgusted, considering leaping out the window. Something like that. 

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Goyle asked. For a confusing moment Draco thought the other boy was addressing him; then Pansy said, "No," very flatly, and held her magazine higher in front of her flushing face.

"That's good," Crabbe said, and sniggered. "'Cause you know, we get to see girls in school robes all the time, and -"

" - tonight's supposed to be a special treat, and all," Goyle finished for him. They were both leering at Pansy like great slobbering dogs. 

Pansy didn't respond. 

"Millicent's taking the mark, you know," Crabbe tried again.

"Yes, I know," Pansy answered, as emotionlessly as before. 

"So it's not that you're a girl," Goyle said, shrugging. "'Cause Millicent's a girl."

"Mostly," added Crabbe, and they both chuckled. 

"Guess they just figured you've got other talents," Goyle suggested. 

"Shut up," Draco snapped. Pansy lowered her magazine far enough to give him an incredulous look.

"Sorry," Goyle muttered, hunkering down in his seat.

"But just last week you were -" Crabbe protested.

"I don't care what I was, you shut your hole or I'll kill you," Draco cut him off in a conversational tone. Crabbe's mouth snapped shut so abruptly his lips made a little popping sound, his beedy little eyes as wide as they would go. _Stupid wanking pillock. He outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds. He could break me like a fucking twig._

Oh, but no he can't, I'm a Malfoy.

And not just any Malfoy, I'm the crazy son of a bitch who tried to kill Harry Potter. 

"He's sorry," Goyle insisted, elbowing Crabbe hard in the ribs. Crabbe grunted. 

"I don't care what they say," Pansy interjected, voice still lacking all inflection. "It doesn't matter." 

__

I need the hell out of here, now. 

Draco stood abruptly, jostling past all of them and stomping out into the corridor. He almost fell over as the train went around a bend, sending him careening into a wall. He swore loudly, and stumbled the rest of the way down the hall towards the bathroom. He slammed the door, sat down on the edge of the sink and dug his knuckles into his eyes, trying to press back against the feeling of pressure in his skull, like his head might just explode. 

"Hello, Sir," said a squeaky little voice. Draco's head snapped up. There was a house elf wearing a swatch of brocade curtain standing on the toilet. It looked vaguely familiar.

"Who the hell are you?" Draco demanded unceremoniously. _And could my life become any more of a bloody fucking joke if I tried? _

"I am called Dinky, Sir," the elf said with a deferential little curtsy; when it looked up again it was gnawing on its lower lip and there were tears hovering in its eyes. "And Dinky is very, very sorry, Sir!" 

"Sorry for what?" Draco asked, knowing even as the words left his lips that he should have been drawing his wand, not asking stupid questions. 

"This!" said the house elf, throwing out a hand. Draco fell backwards, feeling like someone had hit him in the forehead with a two-ton weight. He saw stars. Then he saw nothing at all.

***

"Owl me!" Blaise was calling to Ron, jumping up and down and trying to get a last glimpse of him over the crowd. An impatient looking young man who'd been introduced as her older brother Phillip was dragging her off, causing her jumping to occassionally turn into backwards stumbling. She was swatting at his arm. 

Ron was just staring as if she'd grown a second head, and not a very pretty one. 

"Well, she seems nice," Mrs. Weasley commented. "You'll have to tell me about her on the way home." George snickered; Fred was too busy hiding behind a stack of suitcases with Angelina - now on crutches - to notice. Ron turned a sickly shade of green. 

"Does anyone see my mum and dad?" Hermione asked of no one in particular, standing on tip-toes and looking for muggle clothing in the sea of robes. 

"And hello, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley grabbed the boy in an enormous hug. "Oh, we've been so worried about you. Let me see that nose!" 

"Don't fuss over him, Mum," Ginny chided gently. 

"He needs fussing!" Mrs. Weasley insisted.

"It's alright," Harry tried to reassure her. "Honestly, it's nothing -"

"Nothing!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed in a scandalized tone. "When I heard -"

Hermione collided with another shuffling body as she tried to shift through the crowd, still searching intently for any sign of her parents, and didn't hear the rest of Mrs. Weasley's commentary.

" - see him anywhere," the person was muttering, and Hermione bit her tongue on the apology she'd been about to make when she realized it was Goyle. 

"Stupid mudblood," he mumbled, and gave her another shove with one shoulder before moving off. Everyone was starting to move off, in fact, the crowd thinning. The conductor was calling ten minutes to departure; the train was heading back to Hogsmeade. Fred was following Angelina and her parents, carrying her owl in its cage, chatting with Mr. Johnson about something Hermione couldn't hear. 

"This is the same platform as usual, isn't it?" she asked, turning back to Harry and the Weasleys. 

"Think so," said George with a disconsolate shrug. 

"Is something the matter, Hermione, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, finally letting go of Harry's face. The Boy Who Lived rushed over to Ginny, ignoring her squawk of protest as he yanked a lopsided bag full of wrapped gifts away from her, and made a great show of carrying it with both arms - in front of his face. 

"I don't see my mum and dad," Hermione said, and tried not to sound too much a lost little girl when she said it. "I guess they must be late."

"Oh, well, we'll just wait here with you for them, then," Mrs. Weasley said. "We've got to wait for Fred, anyway, he's helping Angelina's parents get her things to their car."

George made a very sour expression.

"That's very nice of you," Hermione said, setting her trunk down flat in front of her and sitting on it. "They're never late, you know. It must be the holiday traffic. They'll be here any minute."

***

Arthur Weasley was whistling as he entered his office at the Ministry of Magic; the kids would be home tonight. He missed the noise of having them all around the house; the place just seemed too big and empty without at least four or five of them stomping around it. He hoped he could make a short night of it. 

The holidays were a busy time for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, with every two-bit wizard out there trying to make a quick galleon selling enchanted trinkets to muggles. Fortunately for Arthur, when it got right up close to the holidays like now, right before Christmas - well, they sometimes let a few things slide. Just the harmless stuff, charms to make it snow, self-warming slippers, that sort of thing. Certainly not the mistletoe with the real live lust spell on it that they'd confiscated last night, but . . harmless things. Muggles tended to believe in magic this time of year anyway. Peculiar creatures. 

He was hoping Molly hadn't had too much trouble with the car and was about to put his hat and gloves down on his desk when he realized something was already occupying that space. It was a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It didn't look overly much like an early Christmas gift, and it didn't have any Ministry of Magic seal on it. He frowned, leaning over the desk to peer at it from all sides. It looked harmless enough, so he pulled the string. 

Something fluttered out of the package as the paper folded back; the small flat square of some shiny material landed on the carpet. Arthur bent to pick it up. The side that had landed facing up was fairly non-descript, so he flipped it over.

It was a photograph; a muggle photograph to be exact. It showed a pickling jar, glaring in the bright flash of the camera. He had to squint a moment to make out the contents of the jar; when he did, he nearly dropped the photo.

Thumbs. The jar contained human thumbs. 

He hurriedly pushed the paper away from the rest of the package. It was a box, and it was filled with photographs. The thumbs in the pickling jar were not the worst, not by far. Atop the pile of grotesque images sat an elegant looking invitation, the Dark Mark embossed on silver-tinged parchment. 'To Celebrate the Return of Our Dark Lord . . " read the front of the invitation. Arthur opened it, but didn't see the rest of the official script; his attention was caught by the note folded inside. It was plain parchment, words written in a neat, faintly childish looking hand. 

'At exactly sunset, today, December 21st, all spells and wards surrounding Malfoy Manor will cease to exist,' read the note. 

For a moment, Arthur felt like he couldn't breath. Something was making a loud thumping noise in his ears; after a few stunned seconds he realized that was his pulse. Then he was lunging across the room towards the fireplace, knocking over his chair and upsetting a stack of files in the process. He grabbed a handful of floo powder from the canister beside the grate and shouted,"Cornelius Fudge!"

The grim and very female face that appeared in the green flames was not Cornelius Fudge.

"The Minister of Magic is in a meeting," Fudge's personal assistant informed Arthur primly.

"Get him out of the meeting!" Arthur shouted. "Hell, get everybody he's in the meeting with out of the meeting, too - you are not going to believe this!"

***

Narcissa Malfoy knelt naked on her bedroom floor, in the center of a pentagram drawn with a careful blend of herbs, peacock feathers and bones, candles lit at the five points. Her hair hung loose around her, almost to her waist, and seemed to blow in a faint wind, though all the windows in the room were closed. Before her on the very stained and ruined carpet lay a map of Malfoy Manor, sketched in detail too miniscule and precise to have been drawn by human hands. Next to the map lay a knife, a glittering steel thing with rubies in the hilt. 

She cast one last fearful glance at the window to her back, saw the golden-red light of the fading day, and closed her fingers around the knife. 

"Goddess Hera, protector of the hearth, whom I have summoned here" she whispered in a voice nearly unrecognizable, "hear my plea. Accept my offering." The knife rose, shaking. It slashed across her wrist. She could not stop herself from gasping, and bit her tongue to keep from crying out at the pain. Blood welled and ran. It dripped, heavy and dark, onto the map. 

At the five points, the candles flickered and died.

"Withdraw all blessing from this place."

***

"I am only going to ask one more time. Where. Is. Your. Son?" Voldemort hissed, and it was far from the first time the question had been asked. Standing beside their fathers, the younger Crabbe and Goyle shifted uneasily. Someone snickered nastily.

Lucius knelt before the Dark Lord, his thoughts racing, twisting around themselves like a nest of angry snakes. He knew very well there was no answer that would allow him to avoid torture, but perhaps there was a way out of this short of death, if he could only think of the right words, _think of something, think of where in the hell could that worthless brat possibly be - _

He was saved from having to answer. A magically augmented voice boomed through the cavernous great hall. 

"THIS IS THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT!" 

***

"Come in!" Willow called out at the knock on the door. She finished lighting the second candle on the Menorah, murmuring a quick prayer before turning to greet her guest. Snape stood in the doorway holding a bottle of red wine and watching her very closely. 

__

Okay, is he staring at the new robes? And if he's staring at the new robes, is it a "she looks pretty" kinda staring, or a "she bought knew robes, she thinks this is a date, I'm going to turn and run in the other direction now" kinda staring? 

Not that I do think this is a date. I just wanted new robes.

Really. 

And what the heck is it with him and staring, anyway? They're called words! Use them!

"You're Jewish," Snape observed, sounding surprised. 

__

Oh. Not staring at the new robes. 

Did you have a nice ego trip, there? 

"Uh, duh?" Willow answered, taking the bottle of wine and trying to be casual. "Rosenberg?" He grimaced. 

"I meant that I didn't picture you as a religious person," he clarified, following her towards the kitchenette. She had dinner already spread out, kept warm with a simple charm Hermione taught her the week before. 

__

And don't say "no offense" or anything like that, 'cause then I'd have to ask who you are and what you did with Severus Snape. 

"I'm not," Willow admitted with a shrug. "I mean, I don't keep kosher and I sorta celebrate everything, but my family's Jewish. We used to do this when I was little. Light the Menorah and all. It meant a lot to my dad." 

"So you do this," he gestured back towards the other room, "as a matter of tradition? To honor your family?" He said it in a way that made Willow wonder what he thought of his own family. _Not good things, from the sounds of it._

And is it me, or is he almost making small-talk? Doing the whole getting-to-know-me thing? In his own this-is-an-inquisition sorta style, but still . . freaky. But maybe okay. Aloneness bad, talking good, remember? 

"Sort of," Willow said, and bit her lip. _To spill one's guts, or not to spill one's guts? That would be the question. _"Actually, I'm mostly doing it because I miss them," she confessed. She pulled open one of her still fairly unfamiliar kitchen drawers, searching for a corkscrew. 

__

And that's why I'm doing this. Having you to dinner. Loneliness, and also you're all emotionally unstable and stuff, and I'm just being a good friend. A good lesbian friend. I still love Tara.

I wonder what she's doing right now.

I haven't wondered that in weeks . . 

"Well, not them as in my blood relatives kinda them, because I can count on one hand the number of times my parents were home for Hanukkah and I was older than eight." The drawers contained knives, forks, spoons, a turkey baster, several cookbooks with vaguely scary titles and various other implements she didn't even recognize, but no corkscrew. She moved on to the cabinets, shuffling around the kitchenette with her back to him.

"But . . you know, it's about having things you do with people you love that mean something and you can all sit back and remember the time when somebody did something funny and . . well, it's not like it makes that much difference what exactly you're celebrating this time of year 'cause it all kind of means the same thing. Miracles and saviors being born and the return of the sun and . . all that kinda light in the darkness stuff, you know?" She paused for breath, and realized that somewhere in her rummaging she'd ended up at the other end of the kitchen, standing quite close to him. _Did he buy new robes? He looks sorta nice tonight. I think he combed his hair_

"Light in the darkness," he repeated softly, and there was something in his voice that made her feel a little bit like melting. 

"Yeah," she said, barely audible. "Winter-dark celebrations, they're all with the lighting of candles and the evergreens and -" she cut off with a rush of indrawn breath as he bent towards her, his lips just brushing hers.

***

Narcissa was just slipping into her robe, the various ingredients that had created the magical diagram on the floor appropriately scattered, when Lucius burst through her door. His eyes were wild, his normally fastidious clothing rumpled and singed in places. He took no notice of the odd items littering the floor, or the smell of blood and smoke in the air. 

"We've been attacked," he snarled out. "Aurors. Something happened to the wards, they have us surrounded -" Something exploded several levels below them with such force that the floor shook, interrupting Lucius' frantic ranting; there was muffled shouting, and a single shrill scream. 

"Do they?" Narcissa enquired coolly, feeling oddly detached. Some rational portion of her brain suggested that was probably the blood loss, but she didn't really believe that. The power of the ritual was still singing darkly in her veins, better than the best high she'd ever had. 

He didn't notice her tone. 

"Yes, they do!" he snapped back. "Don't be a simpering little idiot, this isn't the time! Come on!" He grabbed for her arm, and she flinched back out of his reach. It brought the backs of her knees up against the bed, and she felt along the blankets for the wand she'd left there. 

"Come where?" she asked. 

"Just do it, you bloody stupid whore!" he snarled, backhanding her so hard she saw stars, just as her fingers closed around her wand. She fell to the plush carpet, inhaling bits of herb and feather. She felt the cut on her arm break open again, the blood very hot against her rapidly cooling skin.

__

It's wearing off. I think I am in shock after all. 

But it's done. It's done. 

"No," Narcissa whispered into the carpet. 

"What?" Lucius hissed incredulously. She giggled. _It's done. It's done. It's done it's done it's - _

She was grabbed by one arm and thrown up against the bedpost; she cried out, cradling her wounded arm to her chest as her head struck the wood. She would have fallen if he hadn't pressed immediately up against her, forcing her back so that the bedpost dug into her spine. She still had her wand clutched in her left hand, the arm that had been cut in the ritual. Lucius had her jaw in his hand, fingers clenching until she thought her bones would snap, his eyes mere inches from hers. 

"Where? You want to know where?" he spat at her. "Fine. I'll tell you where. We're going down to the dungeons and we're going to do a nice little blood ritual to get me and the Dark Lord and a few others out of here. We tried it with the muggles but it doesn't work. It needs a *wizard's* death as sacrifice. Or a witch. Guess who that is, Cissy?" He shook her when he said it.

"Me," she whispered back. There was blood running down her stomach in a steady trickle from her arm, and she was feeling increasingly light-headed, unreal. It almost didn't hurt anymore.

__

Can't let them. Can't let them get away, for Draco, have to keep Draco safe, can't let them get away -

- have to finish it. 

"Look, Mum, I can fly!" whispered a tiny pale-haired boy on his first broomstick, somewhere back in some shining part of her memory where nothing was bleeding, nothing hurt, everything would be okay . . 

"Smart girl," Lucius ground out. 

"And you are a very stupid man," Narcissa replied calmly. The look on his face was priceless; she thought it almost would have been worth it just for that. 

"What did you say to me?" he growled, crashing her head back against the bedpost for emphasis. She yelped and bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden resurgence of pain, fingers tightening on her wand, held pointing upright between her breasts. When she could see again, his eyes encompassed the entirety of her vision; he was so close she could feel his breath against her lips. 

"Avada Kedavra," she whispered, and they both fell. 

***

TBC . . . 


	17. The Longest Night

Title: The Longest Night (17/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R - there will be more character death in this chapter - well, technically it happened during the events of the last chapter, but you find out about it here. This chapter ain't about hugs and puppies, either.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: The dust settles from the events of last chapter.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

Thanks to Calendar and Dawn Wood for the info re: UK train stations - hopefully I've gotten this right. If it's all wrong, that's my fault, not theirs. 

And thanks as always to Erin for catching my many and varied typos, misspellings, and other assorted abuses of the language, and also for helping me work though the timeline for these last few chapters. 

***

"I hope we'll still be able to get a train tonight," Hermione fussed, standing just inside the door of the Burrow and pulling off her gloves, twisting them anxiously. "I was supposed to meet my parents at King's Cross and we were talking the train right on from St. Pancras to Manchester Piccadilly in Wales to meet my aunt - we were going to spend the day with my cousins tomorrow - but we've missed the train we were meaning to take and now I don't know if there'll be another tonight -"

"You can sort that all out when they get here, dear," Mrs. Weasley said firmly, prying Hermione's gloves out of her tense fingers and stowing them away in the hall closet with her own children's various outer garments. "I'm sure they'll be here as soon as they get the message you left on that answer-er whats-it." 

"Answering machine," Hermione supplied distractedly. "I hope Dad thinks to call home and check the messages. Do you think I should let Crookshanks out? I don't want to be a bother, I shouldn't be here long at all, but he's been cooped up all day on the train -"

"He'll eat Errol," Ron interrupted indignantly. "You can't let that -"

"Of course you can let your cat out, dear," Mrs. Weasley said with a stern glance at Ron. "We'll have to find him some scraps to eat, too. Poor thing, having to stay in a box all day."

"Mum -" Ron protested. 

"Why don't you help Harry get his things upstairs?" Mrs. Weasley suggested, in a tone that made it an order. Ron stomped off sulkily, grabbing one end of Harry's trunk and pulling it up the stairs so that it clunked on every step. Harry followed after carrying Hedwig's cage and looking vaguely embarrassed. 

"Can I borrow Pig?" Fred called up the stairs after his brother. 

"What for?" Ron demanded sullenly from the top of the staircase. 

"To knit me a pair of mittens, why?" Fred shot back. "To send a letter, you nit!" 

"Use Erol!" Ron grumbled, and started off down the hall with Harry's trunk. "Maybe then the cat won't eat him!"

"Ickle Ronnie-kins needs his owl so he can write his Slytherin girl," George piped in. 

"Slytherin?" Mrs. Weasley repeated with interest. 

"I'm going to go find some scraps for Crookshanks," Ginny announced, darting out of the room towards the kitchen. Hermione had taken the cat out of his carrier and was holding him, petting his ears fretfully as he wriggled and struggled to get down. 

"Oh, what if I was supposed to just get on the train?" Hermione exclaimed, the idea just crossing her mind. "Maybe I was supposed to meet them at the other end - I must have forgotten -"

"Wouldn't they have sent you a ticket?" Fred asked, turning towards her. "And don't you have a hawk or something? I've seen a hawk about your dorm -"

"It's Viktor's," Harry supplied, coming back down the stairs. "You could borrow Hedwig." 

"But if I don't remember them writing about it, maybe I didn't get the letter with the ticket in it, it could have gotten lost, or maybe I just forgot to ever read it, I've been so busy with finals, I could have forgotten my ticket -" Hermione looked near to tears; Crookshanks decided he'd had enough of his mistress's high emotion and shoved out of her arms with claws extended, landing on the carpet with a yowl and taking off in the direction of the Weasley's Christmas tree, which was rather lopsided and overburdened with home-made ornaments. Harry handed Hedwig off to Fred, who bounded up the stairs taking two steps at a time.

"You won't see her back until New Year's," George commented to Harry, then stomped off into the kitchen.

"You wouldn't forget your ticket," Harry told Hermione distractedly, while shooting a rather puzzled glance after George.

"But they're never, ever this late," Hermione insisted. "They're very punctual people. They wouldn't just forget -"

"Of course they haven't forgotten you," Mrs. Weasley insisted. "It's just a mistake, I'm sure."

"Maybe their car broke down," Harry suggested with a shrug. "It's not like they could call the school to tell you." 

"I found some turkey sandwiches," Ginny announced, coming back out of the kitchen. "Would he like that?"

"I found some fudge!" George said around a mouthful of the sweet, following his sister and holding a baking tray. 

"That's for after dinner!" Mrs. Weasley protested, snatching the baking tray out of her son's hands and swatting at him. George nicked another piece off the tray and disappeared back through the kitchen door; Mrs. Weasley turned back to Hermione with the tray. "Here, have some fudge, dear."

"That's not fair!" George called out from the kitchen. 

"They're never this late," Hermione insisted, staring blankly at the offered dessert. 

***

__

This is really happening. If I were just dreaming this, I wouldn't be getting a crick in my neck, Willow thought, dazed. His lips were warm, and softer than she would have expected, and somehow she'd gotten her hands tangled up in his hair and that was soft too. 

__

But his chest is hard, all planes and angles and so different from kissing a girl - oh god Tara, what am I doing! She didn't move away, though; she was kissing him back and wasn't quite sure when exactly that had happened. 

__

Tara, I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't mean to, but you're so far away, baby, everyone's so far away and this feels so good and I like his chest being all hard and his hands have calluses on them and I can feel them through the back of my robe and I didn't think I got melty like this for guys anymore and I think maybe I don't have a clue who or what I'm supposed to be on the whole guy/girl issue but this is nice, this is very nice, but I really wish my brain would just shut up sometimes, just let me - 

Severus pulled back just a little, letting them both breath, and Willow opened her eyes to meet his. They were deep and dark and watching her so intently she wasn't sure she could breath after all. His body had gone tense, waiting for something - _waiting for me to kiss him again? To pull away? To laugh at him, slap him, drag him off to the bedroom and tear off his clothes? _

Is "all of the above" one of the options? 

"That was nice," she said instead, in a hushed and slightly tremulous voice. 

__

Tara, baby, I'm sorry . . I'm so sorry . . 

Something of her regret must have shown in her face, because he stepped away abruptly; her arms dropped from his shoulders and fell to her sides. His face seemed to close off, his eyes becoming just hard black eyes again. 

"I apologize," Severus said shortly, tone clipped and formal. "That was - utterly inappropriate. There is no excuse -"

__

Okay, what the hell? What the bleepin' hell? Why is my life always like this? Why do the smoochies always have to come with the confusion and pain and regrets and -

"Oh will you *please* get over yourself?" Willow blurted out. He snapped his mouth abruptly shut. _Okay, didn't really mean to say that. _"I mean, okay, yeah, I wasn't expecting that, but it wasn't bad. I mean, well, it sort of was. Oh, but not in the being bad, like, blech icky sort of way!" she rambled on, trying to get her thoughts into some sort of coherent order. "It was nice in that way. I mean - you know what I mean!"

"Rarely, if ever," Severus retorted dryly, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow. 

"And now you're being all sarcastic guy!" Willow exclaimed in exasperation. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing, because I totally do, you're just trying to act all jerky 'cause then you think I'll get mad and then somebody'll leave - and let me tell you, Mister, that'd be you, 'cause these would be *my* rooms - and then we won't have to have this conversation and, well, that's not going to work, because nobody's leaving and we're so having it." She paused for breath. "This conversation, I mean."

"I see," Severus said tonelessly. "And what conversation would that be?"

"You kissed me," Willow crossed her arms over her own chest, glaring. 

"I was trying to apologize for that, when we segued into my social defense mechanisms of choice," Severus answered. 

"Well I don't want you to!" Willow exclaimed. 

"You don't want me to apologize," he said incredulously. 

"Nope," Willow shook her head. 

"Did you - " Severus drew in a breath, obviously steeling himself, " - did you want me to kiss you?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. _Did I? Well, I didn't want him not to kiss me. _

Oh god, Tara . . how the hell did we get here . . 

No, not we. Just me. You're back in Sunnydale presumably getting on with your life. It's just me who's here all confused. 

"I should go," Severus responded stiffly, misinterpreting her silence. _He's so tall, _she thought innanely at his proud, retreating back. _We'd look absolutely ridiculous dancing. I'd have to stand on his feet. _

"Don't go," Willow reached out to catch his arm. He paused, back still to her. The arm under her fingers was thin but wirey, muscles palpably tense beneath layers of robe. 

"I don't need your pity or your condescension," he snapped out. 

"Well that's good, 'cause you ain't got either," she retorted, letting her hand drop away. He stayed, but still facing the door. "I mean, I know people who've had it *way* worse than you, with the whole tortured soul thing. Ask me about Angel some time."

"Ask you about angels?" he repeated her words doubtfully.

"Angel. Singular. It's a name," she corrected, and resisted the urge to giggle. _And somehow all things come back to Buffy and her boyfriends. Figures. _"You know, people way dumber than us wouldn't be over-analyzing all this. They'd just be ripping the clothes off and getting to it." 

He spun around to face her, clearly shocked; she blushed. "Got your attention," she said with a shrug. "But, I think I did. Want you to kiss me, that is. But it's not that simple."

"Not that simple? How shocking," Severus said dryly, voice fairly dripping sarcasm. "Something in my life lacking simplicity. What a new and thrilling experience." She laughed, and some of the tension broke. 

"You're telling me!" she shot back. "At least you're not a werewolf." Both eyebrows rose at this, and he looked faintly offended. "Never mind," she waved it away hastily. "Long story. So, um, there's this food that I cooked over here and it's - well, it's not getting cold 'cause there's a warming charm on it. But we could pretend it's getting cold 'cause that'd give us an excuse to go sit down like normal people and not keep on standing here staring at each other."

"There's also wine," he offered, gesturing to the bottle as he moved to sit at the table. 

"Right, wine," Willow agreed with a sigh. _And please pass the alcoholic beverages this way. _"I still don't have a corkscrew."

***

Draco woke slowly to cold and darkness, and a sharp shooting pain that started at the base of his neck and wrapped itself all the way around his skull to his forehead. He seemed to be slumped against something, wedged into a corner; the surface beneath him was very hard and freezing. He tried to shift, frowning and groaning in reluctant near-consciousness. There wasn't any room to shift, though, and he slipped and started to fall, still only half-awake. He flung out a hand, which hit something else smooth and hard, and landed on his side in a tangle of limbs on cold tile floor. 

Quite wide awake now, he blinked in the pitch black. The chill of the tile almost felt good against his throbbing left temple, but the rest of him was shivering. 

__

What in the bleeding hell? Where - 

Train. House-elf. Threw some kind of curse or something at me - 

Dark. It's dark. It's night time, I should be home by now, I should be home being initiated oh FUCK, oh fucking hell and damn it, oh bloody fucking - he scrambled frantically to his knees, feeling first on his person and then on the ground for his wand. It had rolled just behind the toilet; thankfully it was unbroken. 

"Lumos!" he croaked out; a rather feeble light blossomed from the tip of the wand. _Yep, same bathroom. I'm still on the train. _

Father's going to kill me. He's really, actually going to kill me for this. I'm dead. 

On the other hand, I don't currently have a brand shiny new illegal tattoo. Gotta look at the bright side. They can bury me with my arm in its original condition. Assuming there's enough left to bury. Fucking hell, why would a house elf want to knock me unconscious in a bathroom anyway? 

He stood, a little shakily, and tried the door. At first it wouldn't budge; he twisted the knob harder, verging on panic, and the door flung itself squeakily open. He stumbled and fell out into the corridor. _Just a door that sticks. Not any big deal._

Not like, say, getting accosted by a house elf and left on the train and missing your Death Eater initiation. Not that kind of big deal. 

This can't be happening. This just can-fucking-NOT be happening. 

"Hello?" he called out; his voice came out thin and wavery and entirely too childish for his liking. "Hello!" he yelled again, trying to put a little more force behind it. The sound echoed back down the corridor and into the darkness; nothing else answered. "Anybody home?"

__

"Anybody home, home, home . . " shivered back to him. He was wearing only school robes, and the pain in his head was making him nauseous and shaky; the cold seemed to seep right through the clothe as if it didn't exist, clinging to his skin and eating into him all the way down to his bones. 

__

I could go back to the compartment and see if my luggage is still there - get a heavy cloak or something - 

He stared into the blackness and didn't want to open any of the dozens of identical closed doors. It was stupid and childish and cowardly, he knew, but it was very dark, very dark and very cold and anything could be lurking in there.

"Hello!" he screamed, voice harsh with fright. "Somebody fucking answer me!" He took a tenative step forward, moving towards the front of the train, and the door at the end of the car. "Shouldn't there be a night watchman or somebody here? A bloody house-elf? _HELLO_?!"

__

"HELLO, Hello, hello, hello . . ! "

Has anybody even noticed that I'm missing?

Of course they have. I missed my fucking initiation. They noticed. 

But nobody's here looking for me . . Father hasn't got the Ministry combing the streets for his lost boy . .

Father could be dead.

I don't suppose Voldemort would be pleased that he'd misplaced his son. His supposed-to-be-initiated son. His supposed-to-be-offered-up-on-a-silver-platter son. 

God, he can't be. Nobody can be dead just because a stupid bloody house elf knocked me out in the train bathroom.

Though there's got to be a reason why the house elf did that. Somebody told it to. House elves just don't get bright ideas like that all on their own. 

Weasel-girl? Do the Weasleys have a house-elf? Would she have done that?

The Weasleys don't have a house elf, you git. The Weasleys don't have two knuts to rub together. And why the hell would you think she'd go to the trouble, anyway? 

I can't think of anyone who'd go to the trouble. 

"Hello!" he called again. "Can *anybody* hear me?" There was still no answer.

__

Is anybody here? Anybody at all? There must be someone in the station. There must be .

But if there's not . . if no one can hear me, no one at all . .

"Voldemort," Draco whispered. 

Nothing happened. The train was still a dark, slightly spooky, very freezing old empty train. The shadows stayed just shadows. There was no feeling of being watched, no hiss of serpentine breath. He was still alone. 

"Hey Voldemort, you stupid wanking git!" he yelled into the darkness, voice hoarse with the cold. "Misplaced anything? I'm here! Hello! Come and get me!" 

But no one did, and after a few moments he trudged his shivering, aching way to the door at the end of the car, charmed it open, and began the long trek back to Hogwarts. 

***

"S-sir?" a tentative voice queried; Arthur Weasley looked up from his twitching, hexed leg to see the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department's newest intern clutching her clipboard to her chest like a shield, watching him expectantly. The girl's name actually was Weatherby, Anita Weatherby - he'd thought it was hysterical. Percy hadn't eaten dinner downstairs for a week after Arthur had hired her, convinced that his father was somehow poking fun at him. Arthur worried about his middle child sometimes, he really did. 

Right at the moment, though, he was more worried about Miss Weatherby. She was looking a little green. 

__

Told them they had no business sending a kid like her out on a raid. Wouldn't want one of mine here. Thank God Percy's department has nothing to do with this.

"H-how's your leg, sir?" Weatherby asked politely. 

"I've had worse," Arthur answered in a hearty tone. He hadn't really - it hurt like all hell, and he was pretty damned far down the list of people needing medical attention - but there was no need for her to know that. The Malfoy's kitchen had been converted into an impromptu battlefield hospital; Weatherby's eyes kept darting twitchily towards the walk-in pantry at the other end of the room. That was the impromptu morgue. _She's got enough on her mind without worrying about my leg, that's for damned sure._

Though I hope the git who hit me got fried. 

"Th-that's good, Sir," she nodded.

"Is she injured?" a brusk voice demanded from behind them. 

"I don't think so," Arthur told his Aunt Eliza - _they're going to bury me before that woman retires, I swear - _then turned and frowned at Weatherby. "You're not, are you?"

"N-no-" she began hesitantly.

"Then she needs to get out," the mediwitch snapped. "We're crowded enough." She didn't wait to see if her orders were followed, hurrying back to her patients. 

"I just had a question," Weatherby said, clutching her clipboard tighter. 

"Ask it quick, then," Arthur advised her. "Trust me, she's a terror when she doesn't get her way." Weatherby blinked, evidently finding that an odd statement - _which I suppose it is if you don't know she's a relation - _then collected herself. She glanced at the clipboard.

"Well, Sir, there was this device - down in the dungeon, see? - and Coopersmith told me he thought it was a muggle device. He'd read about it. Said it was called an -" she squinted down at her notes; Arthur thought he remembered her in glasses, which were nowhere to be seen at the moment. "- an 'iron maiden'. I think that's what he said."

__

Oh Lord . . 

"But anyway, Sir, I was just wondering - Coopersmith said it's a t-torture device. Th-that's what the muggles invented it for in the first place, see. But it l-looks like it was used here -" she swallowed visibly "- well it looks like it was used in a ritual blood-letting. To raise power, see? So I was just wondering, if the muggles invented it for torture anyway, and that's sort of - sort of like torture, anyway, is that - does that constitute misuse of a muggle artifact?" 

She curled her arms around herself, clutching her clipboard tightly, and waited for his answer.

__

Aw hell. She shouldn't have had to see - I mean, she's just a kid, she can't be any older than Percy, why in the hell didn't they come get me, my leg's not that bad. Coopersmith, I've heard that somewhere before, have to find out what department, there are going to have to be words -

"Sir?" Weatherby prompted.

"Yes," Arthur answered. "Yes, that does. Anything you're in doubt about? Count it. Hell, if you can somehow find a way to make living in a house misuse of a muggle artifact, you go for it, alright?"

"Y-yes, Sir!" Weatherby nodded quickly, and turned to leave; she nearly ran into an incoming gurney. The gurney's occupant was covered completely by what looked to have been a curtain before tonight. Weatherby gave a petrified little squeak and stumbled backwards. 

"I need a confirmation of death on a muggle, here!" the wizard steering the gurney called out. 

"Why is she still here?" Eliza Weasley demanded, storming up the length of the room, pointing her wand at Weatherby. The girl squeaked again and ran. Eliza tsked and shook her head, walking briskly up to the gurney and jerking the sheet back from the body. Arthur knew better than to look, he really did, but sometimes it's impossible not to; and besides, if his 92-year-old aunt could take it, he could. 

Except when he saw the face, he wasn't so sure he could. His leg suddenly didn't hurt anymore; everything went numb. 

__

Aw, hell. Aw, hell, not three days before Christmas - not ever, preferably, but not three days before Christmas. Aw hell . . 

Eliza waved her wand dispassionately the length of the corpse's head and torso, and got no response. "Dead," she snapped out curtly. "By about two hours, I'd guess. Did you find ID?"

"Not a bloody thing," the mediwizard complained, leaning his elbows on the end of the gurney and shaking his head tiredly. "And there's another one, a man - we're hoping it's a couple, it'll make'em easier to sort out. We'll get somebody going through the muggle authority's missing persons' reports, but if nobody's reported 'em missing yet, could be weeks. Hate it when this shit happens at the holidays -"

"There's not -" Arthur began, but the words stuck in his throat. "There's no need for that. I can identify them. Or her, at least." _Please let it not be a couple. Not both of them, not right before Christmas. _Both sets of eyes swivelled in his direction; his aunt Eliza's face seemed to soften for just a moment. 

"You knew her?" the mediwizard who'd brought the gurney asked, sounding a little uncomfortable but curious.

"Yeah," Arthur nodded. "Somebody needs to floo Hogwarts, and I guess call the muggle transportation authorities - there's a girl, would have been getting off at King's Cross about four today -"

"Aw, hell," the mediwizard echoed Arthur's sentiments exactly. "She had a kid? Man, I *hate* it when this shit happens at the holidays."

__

I just hate it when this shit happens, Arthur thought, suddenly anxious to be home. He wanted to see his wife - just see her, and know she was alive. 

***

Hermione was staring at the Weasley's clock, wondering if she ought to point out to someone that it appeared to have been malfunctioning. Mr. Weasley's hand had been shimmying back and forth between 'work' and 'mortal peril' for several hours; it seemed to have stopped now, settling on 'work' for the last hour or so. Having nothing better to do, she just watched, waiting to see if it would happen again. In a muggle clock she might have assumed a gear was slipping, but she had no honest idea how a wizarding clock worked. _I wish they had a muggle clock, or that I had a watch . . it must be almost midnight by now, and Dad must have thought to check the messages, I don't know why they aren't here, they very nearly could have *walked* here by now. _

Ron and Harry were playing a game of chess, which Harry was losing badly. Ginny had tried to stay up with them, but had fallen asleep curled in a ball in an armchair, Crookshanks curled up in her lap. Mrs. Weasley kept saying she was going to bed, then popping back out again in robe and slippers and offering them snacks. Every now an then she'd pull the front curtains back, murmur something unintelligible about how unreliable muggle means of transportation are, and then disappear back upstairs. She had just come down again, commenting that they were almost through the fudge, when the doorbell rang. 

"Oh, that must be my mum and dad, finally," Hermione said, stuffing the last bit of her fudge into her mouth and bouncing towards the door. When she flung it open, however, it was not her mother and father who stood there. It was Dumbledore. 

She didn't know why, but Hermione suddenly felt her entire body clench in sick fear. 

__

He's out of place. Shouldn't be here. He's horribly, awfully, dreadfully out of place and something's happened, something terrible. 

"Why are you here?" Hermione blurted, words made awkward and sticky with a mouthful of fudge. _That was very rude, _she thought with a detached sort of shock at herself. She had the wild urge to slam the door in his very grim-looking face and run upstairs. _And hide under the bed, perhaps_. She'd never had such a gut-wrenching feeling of foreboding in her life. 

"Professor Dumbledore," said Mrs. Weasley with careful courtesy, coming up behind Hermione and putting a half-restraining, half-comforting hand on her shoulder. "This is a surprise. Won't you come in?"

__

She knows. She knows too. Something's really, really dreadfully wrong. 

Mrs. Weasley's hand steered Hermione out of the doorway so the tall, elderly wizard could duck into the room. No one was saying anything; Ron's jaw seemed to have paused in the act of chewing, his brow wrinkled in concern, which made for a very odd expression indeed. _I think that'd be funny, any other time, _Hermione thought, through the thick haze that had suffused her brain. 

__

Wrong, this is wrong, Dumbledore shouldn't be here, this is all wrong -

"My mum and dad will be here any minute," she announced to no one in particular. _I don't know why I said that. This is all wrong. _Dumbledore gave her an almost unreadable look, but she thought she detected just a trace of pity. 

"It was just a mistake," she babbled on. "I figured it out. We're all going to visit my cousins in Wales and I should have just gotten on the next train. They must have written me about it but I must have forgotten, because I thought I was meeting them at King's Cross and then we were all going on together, but it must be that I should have just gotten on the train and met them at Manchester Picadilly, because they weren't there. At King's Cross. But I called from a pay phone and left a message at the house, and they're sure to be here any minute, just as soon as they check the messages. It's been hours."

Everyone was staring at her. Only Dumbledore would meet her eyes as she glanced around the room, a little frantic, wanting someone to verify this theory of events. _Yes, of course, that must be it. Just a mistake. _

"Did they call you at the school?" she asked. "Oh, they can't have, there aren't any phones." _I know that, of course there aren't phones at Hogwarts, why did I say that, everything's off-kilter, this is all wrong - "_Did they find someone to help them use the Floo system to call? I'm not in trouble for getting confused about the trains, am I?"

"You are not in any trouble, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said in a rather toneless voice, before turning to Mrs. Weasley. "Is there a room where Miss Granger and I might speak alone?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Weasley, wringing her hands and blanching white but not looking at all surprised at the request. Ron swallowed noisily. "Oh, yes, there's the kitchen - but oh, there's no door there, of course, you'll want some place with a door, I suppose a bedroom, though they're all a mess, but I don't suppose that matters -"

"Not at all," Dumbledore assured her. The couch creaked as Harry shifted awkwardly; Hermione turned to look at him and Ron, and they both suddenly found the carpet a fascinating thing to study. 

__

Look at me. Somebody look at me.

This is wrong. Not real. It's just a mistake, I should have taken the train to my cousins', that's all, things shouldn't be all quiet and dreadful like this, please, stop it, it's just a mistake. 

"I-I should stay down here," Hermione protested. "In case they come. They'll be in a hurry."

"We'll let you know if your parents get here, dear," Mrs. Weasley said reassuringly, in a tone that lacked the slightest sincerity. That firm hand on her shoulder was maneuvering her towards the stairs. She shrugged it off, some vague part of her aghast at being impolite to Mrs. Weasley, but most of her fighting the urge to scream, if only to break the brittle hush that had fallen over the room. 

"I'd like to wait down here," she said firmly. "Just until I hear from my parents. Can't we talk after they've gotten here?" she asked Dumbledore. 

"I'm afraid we can't," he answered, very gently.

"They'll be here," she insisted. "It's been hours, they must have called home by now. They'll find a way to call, or they'll be here, any minute now, I'm sure they'll -"

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore reached out, his wizened old hand settling on her shoulder where Mrs. Weasley's hand had been, the weight of it there seeming to carry a terribly finality, "Hermione, I'm afraid they won't." 

***

TBC . . . (there's one more Pit of Utter Despair chapter and then there will be happy stuff. Promise.)


	18. WinterDark

Title: Winter-Dark (18/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R - yet more nastiness, disturbing themes and death. There will be somewhat happier stuff next chapter, promise - nobody's going to be dancing a jig, but we'll move away from the "life's a bitch and then you die" theme. 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Yet more fall-out. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

***

__

The floor of the Lestrange's great hall was cold, hard, and altogether uncomfortable, but Severus felt ill-inclined to move; for one thing, his head was pounding as though it'd fall off. For another, there was a supple, warm body curled around his. That was going a long way towards making all the various other indignities of passing out drunk on the floor completely insignificant. Sometime during the night someone had tossed a robe over the two of them like a blanket; it looked like his robe, so he supposed he'd probably done that, but he didn't quite remember. 

"Are you awake?" Cissy asked in a teasing, half-giggling little voice. Her face was flushed; she was obviously still high, though he wasn't sure on what. Her hand was tracing nonsensical patterns on his chest; it paused, then trailed down his abdomen. He sucked in a rather desperate breath; his pulse was thudding horrifically loud in his temples and he was terrified he might throw up. He didn't want to do that; he didn't want to do anything to make her stop. 

"I guess you are," she whispered in his ear, then laughed. He was rather beyond speech. 

A door banged open somewhere down the hall, echoing against stone and tile and high domed ceiling and the inside of his skull. Cissa's hand drew away and she sat up, the robe/blanket falling down around her waist, her breasts pale and bare in the early morning light. 

"It's rude not to knock!" she scolded indignantly; her face then broke into a rather delighted, simpering sort of grin when she saw who had walked in. "Oh, hello, Lucius," she purred. Severus tried to bundle the robe around his hips, feeling very ill; Narcissa stood, unconcerned in garters and one white stocking and nothing else. She sauntered up to Lucius Malfoy, kissing him on the cheek. Anton Lestrange was with him, looking rather disgusted by the whole scene. Lucius didn't return Cissa's kiss, just gave her a faintly indulgent, faintly predatory sort of glance and then proceeded to ignore her. 

Anton walked up to Severus and kicked him in the hip, sneering. "Playtime's up - *he* wants you, though Merlin knows why," Lestrange spit out. 

"Don't injure him," Lucius admonished distractedly, watching Cissa as she whirled indignantly on Lestrange.

"No kicking," she snapped out, slapping at his arm. "The Dark Lord doesn't mind, s'not a dickless git like you, you wouldn't know how -"

"Cissy -" Severus began warningly, reaching out towards her, but Anton, who appeared neither hung over nor sleep-deprived, was much quicker. He grabbed her ineffectually swatting hand in an iron grip, squeezing until she cried out; then he shoved her backwards. She stumbled on the edge of the robe Severus was still clutching around his waist, landing hard on her ass, her pale, fine hair falling in her face. 

"Get dressed," Lestrange ordered, giving Severus another kick, harder this time, just to make his point, before turning and sweeping out of the hall. 

"The Dark Lord wants to know if you can do with a potion what Anton did with a charm last night," Lucius explained smoothly, calm and unruffled. "A potion would be so much easier to apply to a group." Narcissa was quietly crying. Lucius blew her a kiss, and followed Lestrange from the room. 

"Bastards," Cissa sniffled when they were gone. "My head hurts."

"There's a hangover remedy in my bags, green bottle with blue cork," Severus suggested awkwardly, pulling on his robe. 

"Won't you want it?" she asked, sniffing and turning her face up to him. She was beautiful even with swollen tearful eyes and the pallor of beginning withdrawl clinging to her perfect skin. He did want it, but she was sitting there sprawled out on the floor with her legs still half-spread, exactly as she'd fallen, looking like a broken doll. 

"I have more," he lied. 

"Oh," she said, accepting it without question. She wiped her hand - already starting to bruise - across her eyes. "You're going to go make the potion for them?"

"Of course," he snapped back, inexplicably half-annoyed that she hadn't caught his lie. 

"Do you want to?" she asked in a small voice. He paused, doing up the buttons at the front of his robe.

"It's important," he hedged irritably. "You've heard the Dark Lord too, it's only a matter of time before the muggles figure out that we exist, with the all the new mechanical things they're inventing that are almost like magic, and they'll react like they always have, they'll attack - and the Ministry is incompetent, there's been no weapons research done there in years. The experimentation is unpleasant, but it's necessary if we're to -"

"I don't like it," Cissa interrupted, sounding child-like and scared. "That muggle was screaming so much. Anton was laughing." He looked at her, wondering just how much she'd drank - or cranked up, or shot up, or all of the above - last night. She just blinked huge, tearful, pale blue eyes up at him, as if expecting him to make it better.

"Then why do you come?" he demanded impatiently. He was dressed now, he knew he shouldn't be lingering here. The Dark Lord would get impatient. 

"I dunno," she shrugged petulantly. "People like me, they're nice to me. It's fun sometimes." He thought of Anton Lestrange crushing her hand, and said nothing. 

"Let's run away!" she blurted out suddenly, face brightening, reaching her wounded hand out to clutch weakly at his robes. "Just us. We'll go away somewhere that there's no - no muggles, and no people screaming and - we could, couldn't we? Could we?"

"I have to go," he mumbled, leaning down to remove her hand gently from his robe. She yanked it back, clutching it to her naked chest. 

"Fine," she snapped. "Go. I don't care." Not knowing what else to say, he did. 

A hand touched his arm. Severus blinked, the Lestranges' hall and Narcissa's face fading from memory. He was staring out an arrow-slit window somewhere along the third-floor corridor. It was cold, a thick haze of snow falling outside. His elbows ached where they'd been resting on the stone for some unfelt time.

"Dumbledore's back," Willow informed him in a hushed tone, watching him closely as if expecting he might shatter at any moment. "Hermione's staying with the Weasley's for now, at least until Christmas. There's - there's more word from the Ministry."

"More dead?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes," she answered as flatly, and he felt a surge of entirely disproportionate gratitude for her candor. 

"Students?" he asked.

"Some," she said. "He didn't tell me names, he said he wanted to tell you himself." _Yes, he would, wouldn't he? He made sure he was the one to tell me about Narcissa. I don't know how he even knew._

Of course, I don't know how he knew to find me down in Willow's rooms, being told in her babbling way that she's interested but still vaguely in love with her girlfriend, either. 

He glanced down at the redhead. Her eyes were a subdued sort of blue-green, the color of sky before a storm, or of the ocean in winter. Cissa's had been the color of frost, just barely possessed of color at all. Cissa was tall, classically beautiful in a frail sort of way, while Willow was tiny, vibrant, no one feature outstanding until they were put together, until she moved, laughed, breathed. 

__

They're nothing alike, really. Willow cranked up once. Got lost in her power more than once, but in a terrified, altruistic sort of way. Nothing like Cissa. Cissa didn't have any power to get lost in, did she?

But she did more in one night than I did in fifteen years. And died for it.

Dead. Cissa is dead.

Back then I was expecting it all the time. She'd just go too far one night, crank up too much, and we'd find her in the morning. I expected it. I'd stopped expecting it now. I'd almost stopped thinking of her at all.

Maybe she'd be alive if I'd kept thinking of her. If I'd been paying attention, if I'd found a way to see her, even if she never came to the revels anymore - 

"I'm sorry about . . about the woman Dumbledore came to tell you about," Willow offered hesitantly. "Draco's mother?" 

__

Draco's mother. Of course she'd be Draco's mother to Willow. How else would she know her?

I suppose there are worse things she might be remembered by. Worse things she probably will be remembered by.

And they haven't found Draco yet; don't know if he's dead or alive yet, don't know if he's with Voldemort. Would he have stood by and watched his mother die? Would he? 

Would I? And didn't I, really? I did nothing to stop it. Nothing to save her. 

"Were you close?" Willow asked.

"No," Severus snapped. 

"Oh," Willow retreated a little, hugging her arms around herself. "I'm sorry."

__

She's nothing like her. Nothing at all. Cissa wasn't a fighter. And Willow's not - just because her last lover was a woman doesn't mean she's as indiscriminate as Cissa was. She loved this Tara. Perhaps still loves her. There's no reason to compare the two. 

No reason to be petrified she'll end up dead on the floor somewhere, half-naked, bleeding, just waiting there and growing cold for some stupid Ministry git to find her, take pictures for the Aurors, draw the last spells out of her wand, examine her lifeless flesh for curses because now she's *evidence*, she's a body, a thing, not the body you made love to, not the girl who was so desperately alive you just knew she had to burn out sooner or later, no one could be that much and that weak at once, no one could survive the life she half-lived.

No reason to think that of Willow. No reason at all. 

I never thought she'd die like this. She's a hero. Her picture will be all over the Daily Prophet tomorrow.

Not the photos from the scene. Please, not that. She would have hated that. She wasn't modest but she was vain. The world shouldn't get to see her dead and cold. 

"I knew her in school," Severus said, not sure why he was talking, where the words were coming from. He hadn't been thinking that. "She came to dark revels. She was . . we weren't . . we fucked, I guess. That's what we did. We fucked. She fucked everyone." He hadn't meant to say that, not with her lying in a morgue somewhere, waiting to be put in the ground. That wasn't what he wanted Willow to know about her. 

Willow didn't say anything, but she crept closer to him, leaning against the edge of the window. She had to look up to watch his face; _she's so very tiny, so fragile, but not. She's a fighter, a survivor. Not like Cissa. _It made him feel guilty, and he wasn't sure why.

"She was "close" with everyone, I guess," he spat out bitterly. "She wasn't close with anyone." He paused, surprised to find that his breathing had grown rather ragged. "I should have taken her away. She hated it, but she wouldn't leave. They treated her like shit, every last one of them, even me, but she didn't leave. It's what finally got me to fucking wake up, to see . . she married Lucius. I finally saw what an utter idiot she was, what an idiot I was, letting them use me. Saw they didn't give a damn about anything, not about the betterment of the wizarding world, they weren't any better than the muggles they called animals, soulless, they were all soulless filth and I should have made her - I should have made her get away -" he stopped, because there suddenly wasn't enough air. 

__

She's dead. Cissa's dead and a martyr and a hero and I'm alive, and I shouldn't be, I shouldn't be here, drinking wine and perhaps getting close to someone and living, I shouldn't be living when she died, she died and did more than I ever did, more than I did in fifteen years, Cissa who was a joke, Cissa who they laughed at 'cause she'd do anything, screw anything, she even did that greasy git Severus, do you believe that, do you believe her - 

- she's dead. 

"She did, though," Willow offered tentatively. She was biting her lip, looking uncertain. "Leave. Not the way anybody would have wanted to leave, but she did. She must have - she must have changed, I guess, from how you remember her. I mean, she managed to take a few of them with her. Maybe even Lucius. It's - well, it's not much, I guess, compared to still being alive, but it's - there's someone coming up the path," she finished abruptly. Severus blinked at the non-sequitor, his over-wrought brain slow to catch up with her rapid shift in focus. She was frowning and wriggling her way in front of the window, pressing closely up against him in the process.

__

There's someone coming up the path?

He was able to see easily over her head; at first all he could see was snow and darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out trees, the lake, the faint indentation in the blanket of white that marked the cobblestone path to Hogsmeade. There was a thin, dark shape shuffling up it, silhouetted against the frosty paleness. 

"The Ministry are flooing in and out," Willow observed aloud. "Hogsmeade's on lockdown, everyone's being told to stay inside. The students should be in bed. Why is there someone coming up the path?" Her voice took on an alarmed edge as she went on. 

Severus was barely listening; there was something familiar about that figure, about its hunched-shouldered, faintly belligerent walk, apparent even from this distance.

"Draco," he breathed out, almost disbelieving. _How . . how could he possibly . . _then he was running for the front gate. 

***

"She could have taken my old room," Charlie said, sitting on the edge of an armchair and watching as Ginny made up the couch for herself. "It's nostalgic and all staying there, but I could always bunk with Ron."

"Harry's staying in Ron's room," Ginny pointed out, tucking a sheet corner in under a cushion. 

"Percy, then," Charlie suggested. Ginny just gave him a look. "Desperate circumstances," Charlie shrugged. 

"It's not funny," she snapped.

"Merlin, of course it's not funny, Gin!" Charlie protested, scowling. "I wasn't trying to be funny! I'm just saying -"

"Your room's all full of Quidditch stuff and boy things," Ginny said. "She'll feel more comfortable in mine."

"I don't think she really cares at the moment," Charlie retorted. "Gin, are you okay?" 

"Why ever shouldn't I be?" she said scathingly, grabbing her quilt from the heap of bedding on the floor and flinging it out across the couch. _Why ever should I be bothered that Hermione's parents are dead and Dad's hurt and Mum's going out of her mind and I think she's going to pace a hole in the floorboards if he doesn't get home soon and Merlin knows what's happened to Draco and it's all - it's my fault. _

It's not. I know it's not. It's his fault. Tom. Voldemort. 

But I can feel what he'd feel about this, how funny he'd think it all is, and there ought to be something for that, some balance, I ought to be able to do something to hurt him if I'm going to have this echo of him here inside me - 

I wish I were back at school so I could at least talk to Myrtle about it. That's pathetic. 

If all I can do for Hermione is give her my bedroom that doesn't smell like old Quidditch gloves, then .. well, then she can have it. She can bloody well move in and stay. I'll move into the attic with the ghoul where I belong. 

"You seem a little more not-okay than you ought to be," Charlie stood and folded his arms determinedly. "Gin -" his face softened a little, "you know Dad's gonna be fine, right? It's just a little hex."

She almost laughed. _He thinks I'm upset because Dad was hurt. And I should be. That shouldn't be the smallest thing I'm worried about. _

"You should go tell Mum that, before she falls through the ceiling on us from pacing in front of the window upstairs," Ginny answered, tucking the quilt into the back of the couch, studiously looking anywhere but at her second-eldest brother. 

"What's got into you?" Charlie scowled at her. 

For half a second she hated him. 

__

What's got into me? What's got INTO me? Don't they even remember? Did it maybe just slip his mind? Does it ever occur to any of them that they never even asked, not really, never wanted to know what I remembered, never wanted to know what it felt like, it was just too awful, I guess, so awful that I've had to deal with it all my self for the last three years and now, now he wants to know what's got into me? 

And here I am, thinking how awful they all are - at least they're alive to be awful. Oh, God, Hermione, I don't think I'd survive it if . . both of them at once . . I don't think I could survive it. 

Dad just got hit with a little hex . . but it didn't have to be a little hex. It could have been worse. It could have been . . she sounded like she was choking. She would have fallen on the stairs if Dumbledore hadn't caught her, and that could have been me. That could have been us, so, so easily. 

All because of one person. Tom. He used to lay awake at night planning how he'd kill his father, how he'd torture him. His father who he never even met. 

I hate him. His father. Would it have been so hard for him to just deal with it? So his mother was a witch, so what? Is that worth this? Is that worth Hermione upstairs not able to breath, and Mum pacing the floor and Dad's hexed leg and Draco, who doesn't do well with screaming . . oh God I want to scream . . I just want to scream and scream and scream and never stop. 

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry isn't even right. There isn't a word for this. 

"Nothing," Ginny shook her head. "It's nothing." She kicked off her slippers and crawled onto the couch, pulling the quilt up over her head. "Just go to bed, Charlie," she mumbled. "I'm fine."

***

Draco had never seen Dumbledore's office before; now that he had the opportunity, he found he didn't really care. Snape and Rosenberg had rush him up here as if it were imperative that he be secreted away as quickly as possible, then Rosenberg had left, returning moments later with Madam Pomphrey, a heavy down-filled comforter, and an obscenely huge mug of hot chocolate. Draco was neither hungry nor cold; Madam Pomphrey had pronounced him to be in shock and ordered him to drink the now luke-warm chocolate, then left. Rosenberg had gone to fetch Dumbledore. Snape stayed, hovering like a dark, malignant cloud behind him; Draco couldn't figure out what he was doing at Hogwarts, and not at Malfoy Manor. 

__

But something's gone wrong. More wrong than me getting knocked out by a house elf. 

And no one will tell me anything. 'Dumbledore will explain', and a pitying look. Or, 'You're just going to have to wait for Dumbledore - now drink that chocolate!' 

Dumbledore arrived a moment later in a swirl of soot-dusted robes, as if he'd been using the floo a great deal. He exchanged an unreadable look with Snape, then sat behind his desk, facing Draco.

"There has been a Ministry raid at Malfoy Manor," Dumbledore said without preamble, tone wary, testing. Draco felt his pulse jump into his throat, resisting an almost unbearable urge to look back at Snape. _Did he know? Is that why he's here, not there? _

Did Father know? Is that why the house elf . . no, no, if Father knew, he would have brought me home but there would have been nothing for the Ministry to find when they got there. Would have had dinner set out and the place drowning in Solstice candles, respectable enough for the front cover of Witch Weekly.

"That happens now and then," Draco said with a careful shrug. "Politics. Father's very involved with the Ministry, you know, and -" _And what? Think, damn it! Think! _

House elves just don't get bright ideas like that on their own. Something's happened, something more - 

"And one cannot help but to make enemies," Dumbledore supplied. 

"That's right," Draco agreed, and hoped it hadn't been too hasty. 

"Mr. Malfoy, it is difficult . . perhaps it would put you at ease to know this is difficult for me as well," Dumbledore said. "It has been difficult, these many years you have been at school, and a good many years before that, that your father served on the Board of Governors."

__

Difficult. Draco just blinked at him. _He's breaking the rules. You don't talk about it, you don't talk about that - _

"I want you to know that I am the one giving you this news because it is my duty to do so, not out of spite. There is no magic that will allow me to take this moment and remove it from the time and the conflict in which it exists, and let someone whom you have not been raised to see as an enemy relate tonight's events to you, but I hope you'll believe me when I tell you that I dearly wish I could," Dumbledore finished, and Draco felt the cold of the long walk from Hogsmeade finally making itself known, deep down in the pit of his stomach. 

"Just tell me," he demanded. "Just - whatever it is, just say it already." _You don't talk to the Headmaster like that, either._

"Draco -" _he never calls anybody by their first names not students he calls the professors Minerva and Severus and Willow but never the students _"-I am very sorry, but your mother has been killed."

Draco blinked. Swallowed. Inhaled, exhaled, once, twice . . _I know what those words mean, I know I do, but . . _but he tried to think of something, anything, and came up blank. It felt like someone had pulled a cork somewhere down at the very bottom of his being and all thought, all feeling, all comprehension had just drained away. 

"Your father is currently missing, but there is the strong possibility that he is dead as well." 

"How - " Draco rasped out, swallowed, moistening his tongue so that the words wouldn't catch, but they were just words, he wasn't even sure he was the one speaking them. "How did they - the raid, was it Aurors -"

"At about four o'clock this afternoon, Arthur Weasley found a package on his desk at the Ministry," Dumbledore went on stoicly. _Weasley? _Draco thought. _Weasel-girl . . weasel-girl has freckles on her lips and she told me not to go home. I didn't. I didn't go home. That doesn't make sense . . I don't know what I ought to be thinking but that doesn't make sense, this is all just . . I can't think . . _"The package contained a large number of muggle photographs, showing various illegal devices and objects. It also contained an invitation to a dark revel to be held at Malfoy Manor, and a hand-written note announcing that the wards at Malfoy Manor would be de-activated at sunset this past evening."

__

Malfoy Manor, he keeps saying it like it's in a story in the Daily Prophet, like just some place you've maybe heard of, not like I live there . . do I live there? Will I live there now that . . no. No, this doesn't make sense . . house-elf on the stupid bloody train and Weasley and muggle pictures, it doesn't make any sense . . 

"Naturally, a raid was assembled."

__

Naturally. That's what you do when a house elf knocks you out on the train and you almost kill Potter and Weasel-girl tells you not to go home and there were invitations? I didn't know there were invitations. Naturally. You assemble a raid. 

I'm cold. It's very cold in here. 

"The Aurors and other assembled Department of Magical Law Enforcement personnel stormed Malfoy Manor at slightly after sunset last night. The wards were, in fact, down - however, they were met with armed resistance, from an estimated three dozen or so individuals clothed in traditional Death Eater apparel."

__

Traditional Death Eater apparel. That's kinda funny, isn't it? Is that funny? 

The wards are never down. Never. 

"The Aurors managed to erect a temporary shield around the premises, preventing those inside from fleeing via apparition or portkey. It is believed, based on the evidence that has been gathered to this point, and the testimony of several captured Death Eaters questioned under influence of veritaserum, that the assembled individuals chose to fight rather than flee on foot because Voldemort himself was inside, and in a portion of the manor from which escape by physical means would be unlikely."

__

Dungeons, probably. No way in or out but the one stair down, and it's got all those wards on it . . when he says all the wards, does he mean those too? Those have been there for bloody centuries, some of them. The spells that made them are lost, for some of them. Father's going to be - 

- nothing. Father's going to be nothing because he might be - 

No. No, that doesn't make sense. 

But Voldemort would have been there. That's right. That part's right. He was going to be there to mark me, me and Crabbe and Goyle and Millicent Bulstrode, but not Pansy. 

I missed my initiation. I missed my bloody goddamned initiation because a stupid bloody fucking house-elf knocked me out on the bloody fucking train from school, and that's ridiculous. That's just sodding ridiculous. House elves don't *do* that. They just don't -

- they just don't come up with bright ideas like that on their own. 

Voldemort would have been there. In the dungeons. No way out. There's no way out of there. 

"The resulting skirmish lasted some two hours in the main, and another few hours before the Aurors had rounded up the last snipers. There were casualties on both sides."

__

Casualties. That's a bloody stupid word for it, isn't it? Casualties. Casual. Dying, or getting maimed, having your face hexed off, that's what that means, nothing casual about it, bloody stupid word . . 

Was that . . was that how they . . Mother and Father . . Mum was never casual a day in her life. She'd come down to breakfast in jewellry and beauty charms. 

A day in her life. That's . . that's a weird thought . . no, don't think about that, it doesn't make sense . . 

"Your mother was found upstairs in her bedroom."

__

Found. No. No, no, no, it doesn't make any sense, no sense . . why would anybody send a bunch of muggle pictures to the Ministry, that's stupid, and house elves just don't do things like that on their own . . 

"Also found in the room were the necessary elements to perform a very powerful ritual spell, for invocation, or revocation, of protection for a place or person. From what the investigating Aurors could gather, the ritual was performed in this case to remove the protections from a place - to remove the wards from Malfoy Manor. Other writings found among her personal affects matched the handwriting on the note sent to Arthur Weasley at the Ministry."

And that did make sense. It made sudden, horrible, awful sense - because he remembered where he'd seen that house-elf before. _In the kitchen. In my own bloody goddamned fucking kitchen. And house-elves just don't get bright ideas like that on their own. _

"She wanted to stop the initiation," Draco said numbly. 

"Initiation?" Snape queried sharply, and Draco jumped; he'd forgotten anyone but he and Dumbledore were here. 

"You're a Death Eater," he said tonelessly to Snape. "Why are you here?" If his words had made an impression on the professor, it didn't show; Snape stood still as a statue, impassive. 

__

Should I have said that? I shouldn't have. Shouldn't in front of Dumbledore . . but doesn't matter now, does it?

Does anything? My mother's dead. My mother died to stop the initiation. 

"Professor Snape has been my spy for some time," Dumbledore said quietly at Draco's back; Draco turned back around, blinking disbelievingly at the Headmaster. "We believe he was discovered sometime early this fall; he has not been to a dark revel since the incident in Hogsmeade."

"My mother's dead," Draco blurted out. It was echoing in his head, followed closely by an even more horrible idea. "Did - did my father - "

"The captured Death Eaters tell us that Lucius Malfoy was last seen by them leaving the dungeons; he was supposed to fetch his wife and return. Narcissa Malfoy was to be used in a blood ritual that would give Voldemort the enhanced power to break through the Ministry's shield, and apparate himself and perhaps a few of his followers away from the manor. They had attempted the ritual with the muggle captives being held for the evening's entertainment, but it failed, and they deduced that the sacrifice of a witch or wizard would be necessary."

"They - they sacrificed her -" Draco tried to imagine it and found his brain rebelled, providing him with just blank white noise, just static. 

"No," Dumbledore corrected quickly, "No, she was spared that. Narcissa was found upstairs in her room, undamaged except for a laceration on her left arm and some bruises indicative of a brief struggle. When her wand was examined, it showed that she had performed the killing curse - on herself, and on Lucius Malfoy."

"So they couldn't sacrifice her," Draco said. _To stop them. She died to stop them, to stop me - to stop them from making me one of them._ "She killed herself so they wouldn't get away. And Father - you said -"

"His body was not found, and the after-image of him produced from Narcissa's wand was very faint," Dumbledore explained. "She was greatly weakened from the ritual she'd just performed; it's unlikely the curse would have been powerful enough to kill either of them, if she hadn't already been physically depleted. The ritual required the donation of a great deal of blood." 

"So they caught them?" Draco asked. "Voldemort. They finally caught Voldemort."

__

Said the name. Just said it, like it's nothing. It nothing now, nothing means anything . . 

Dumbledore paused here, and for the first time seemed to flinch away from the telling of it. 

"They did," Draco insisted. "That's why she died, why she killed herself. So they couldn't do the ritual, so they couldn't escape. That's the whole bloody reason she's dead, so they must have caught them!"

"Voldemort found someone else to sacrifice," Dumbledore said quietly. 

"Who?" Draco asked.

"Pansy Parkinson," Dumbledore told him. 

"So there was - there was no point -" Draco heard his voice going thin. He was cold, suddenly horribly cold, as if every bit of frost he hadn't felt all the way from Hogsmeade was suddenly coalescing on his skin, and under his skin, _my blood is going to freeze and I'm going to turn to stone, I can't feel anything, anything . . there was no point, no point at all . . _

Pansy's dead. Mother's dead. My mother and the only girl I ever slept with are dead. 

And Father's . . they don't know. The image of him was faint. Faint, like a ghost. She could be a ghost. He was going to sacrifice her. He was going to fetch her. Fetch her, like a book you'd forgotten, or gloves, yes, just like gloves, must go in and get my gloves because it's colder out here than I thought, just like that, like NOTHING, like she was nothing and it was for nothing and she's dead - 

"A number of Death Eaters were captured, and three were killed," Dumbledore answered in a cautious, sympathetic tone. "We know a great deal more now about Voldemort's future plans than we did a day ago. And I believe - I believe, perhaps, most important to your mother -"

"I wasn't initiated," Draco finished for him. "She knew. She knew I didn't want it." He paused. "She wasn't that type of mum. She wasn't the type that always knew when something was wrong or when you were in trouble or . . she never knew anything. She used to come down to breakfast stoned out of her mind."

__

I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said that about my mother, because she's dead. My mother is dead.

"She died for me," Draco said flatly. "I lived." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Just like Potter."

"Whatever else she might have done in her life, your mother loved you very, very much," Dumbledore tried to assure him.

"Oh goody, maybe I can repel curses now!" Draco snapped. "Just like sodding Potter. Can I be the *Other* Boy Who Lived? Maybe the Boy Who Lived Too." The cold was fading; he could feel heat creeping up from some deep, dark place inside him. "Can I be in Gryffindor now? Maybe we can put my mother in Gryffindor too, posthumously. Can they do that? Maybe she could come back here as a fucking ghost and haunt fucking Gryffindor!"

"Draco -" Dumbledore tried to interrupt.

"Shut up!" Draco screamed. The nothingness in his head was buzzing like a swarm of wasps, hot and furious. "Just shut the bloody fucking hell up, you don't get to talk! None of you do! You're useless, you're a bunch of useless, pathetic wastes, with your spies and your Boy Who Lived and what the fuck do you know about it?"

"Mr. Malfoy -" Snape tried to interrupt, tried to put a hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco slapped it away, backing away from his Head of House until he hit Dumbledore's desk, still screaming. 

"What did you do about it? Nothing!" he shrieked at Snape, and had the satisfaction of seeing the older man go sickly pale and flinch away. "My *mother* had to do something for you to just catch a few sodding Death Eaters! For you to know when your own fucking students were getting the fucking Dark Mark! My mother died and you couldn't even get it right then! You couldn't catch him, couldn't make it worth something -"

Dumbledore murmured something softly, from behind him, and Draco felt something like cool water hitting the center of his back; he struggled against it, but the sedating charm carried him down, and the last thing he saw before consciousness fled was Snape's face, pale and empty as if he'd been carved from stone. 

***

Willow stood nervously outside Snape's door; she'd knocked three times already, and he hadn't answered. Her other arm was getting very tired. 

__

Is this a good idea? I mean, haven't you sprung enough on him tonight? And then there's the whole rest of his life blowing up in his face - 

- which is what makes this a good idea. Grow a spine, Rosenberg. 

She raised her hand to knock again; the door opened, revealing Severus in a long grey night-shirt. His face was haggard and worn, blotchy around the eyes as if he'd been crying earlier. He didn't look like someone who'd just been woken up; in fact, he looked like someone who hadn't slept in days. _Or maybe weeks. Or years. _

"Hi," she said tentative, and gestured to the tray in her other hand. "Um, tea." 

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. 

__

I think I'm almost getting used to the Severus Snape Stare. Though I hadn't seen this variation on it. I think I like the struck-dumb-that-someone's-being-nice-to-me version much better than the shell-shocked-'cause-my-life-just-went-to-hell-in-a-jet-powered-handbasket version. 

This was a good idea. It was. Just look at him. 

"It's late," he said after a moment. 

"I know," she answered. "But you weren't asleep." He didn't respond. "Look, I know today's been - well, there hasn't been a word invented yet for today, I think. But whatever it was, it's been a whole heaping lot of it, and I know some tiny little miniscule portion of that lot was me and my whole 'guess what, I'm gay' thing, and the kissing, and I really don't have enough of an ego to think that compares to there rest of today, but still, I know you probably don't want to deal with it at the moment, so - no dealing," she suggested. "I'm not trying to - I mean, this doesn't mean anything. Or, it does mean something, but it just means I do care about you and I would care about you even if you hadn't kissed me and no offense, but you look like crap, and you shouldn't be alone. So, um, yeah - tea." 

__

And more staring. This one is also new. I'm just not sure if it's the this-woman-is-crazy-and-I'm-about-to-call-Filch-to-remove-her-from-my-doorway kinda staring, or the some-company-would-be-nice-but-saying-so-is-outside-of-my-social-vocabulary kinda staring. 

"Thank you," he said finally, sounding immeasurably tired and grateful, and moved aside, gesturing for her to enter. 

***

In room 212 of Stevenson Hall - the freshman dorm, but the only place with an open bed mid-semester - Tara Maclay woke up to the sound of screaming.

A moment later, the lights clicked on; she blinked in confusion, throwing her hands up in front of her face. The harsh shrieking stopped, and that was when she realized that her throat was raw and that she'd kicked the sheets off the bed, and that the person producing the unearthly sound had been her. 

"Okay, what the hell?!" demanded Claudia, Tara's new roommate. Claudia was eighteen, evidently had difficulty cohabitating with others if her three previous room changes could be considered evidence, and looked very, very annoyed. 

Tara tried to calm her breathing, tugging the sheets back up over her bare legs and squinting.

"Hello?" Claudia blinked the lights on and off repeatedly, which didn't help Tara's disorientation. "Anybody home? What the fuck was that?" 

"S-sorry," Tara managed. 

"Uh, yeah," Claudia snarked. "Whatever." She grabbed her coat off the hook by the door, throwing it on over her pajamas. "Well, if it's not gonna make you have another fit, I think I'll go find some sane people to hang out with. Now that I'm *awake*, and all." She stormed out without waiting for Tara's response, slamming the door behind her. 

"I said s-sorry," Tara muttered at the still-shivering doorframe. She blinked, rubbed her eyes again, stood a little shakily and shuffled over to the fridge. She spilled the first glass of water she tried to pour herself, and grabbed a towel off the drying rack to sop up the moisture before it seeped through the carpet; a moment later she realized the towel was Claudia's. She felt both vaguely bad and vindictively pleased about that. 

__

She's just eighteen, but . . well, but I really, really don't like her. 

And I have bigger things to worry about than towels. She tried again, and this time managed to keep hold of the water glass; the cool liquid felt wonderful on her abused throat. _Like what I was screaming about. Screaming and not knowing why, it's very upsetting, and not usually a sign of good things . . _

Something feels . . something still feels a little off. Something must have felt very, *way* off for me to scream like that, I haven't done that since . . I think since the first night after I moved here . . I felt the Hellmouth . . 

And now it feels like . . feels like . . she sipped her water, sitting down on the end of the bed and trying to gather the amorphous feeling of foreboding into something more coherent.

__

. . like, something wicked this way comes. 

***

TBC . . .


	19. Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men

Title: Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men (19/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Light in the darkness.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

As promised, less gloom, doom, and death - it's not precisely cheerful, but it's not thisclose to being classified as a depressant drug, either. Here be sap and fluffiness, though not of the romantic sort. 

***

__

It never snowed in Sunnydale. 

Well, once. But that was sorta technically a miracle. Does that count? 

Willow's boots crunched through the soft, feathery top layer of snow and sank part way down into the deeper layer of nearly solid ice underneath. It was the sort of snow you got in places where winter and snow were synonymous; layers and layers of various densities built up over the long dark months, melting and re-freezing and forming a temporary geology sitting atop of the frigid earth. She'd never actually seen the grounds *not* covered with snow, not in the nearly month and a half that she'd been there. It just hadn't been the first thing on her mind, for most of that time. 

__

And it's still not, really, but . . well, it's Christmas Eve.

Not that I actually celebrate Christmas, but .. well, I'm blaming the great big old feast. And the 'let's make *another* toast, with yet more yummy mulled wine' theme of said feast. 'Cause I am *so* being maudlin and pathetic at the moment. I mean, wandering around in the snow, in the dark? Please. 

But it's pretty, and I want to, and I can, and it never snowed in Sunnydale, and if I'm gonna be in Scotland for Christmas then I'm gonna enjoy the goddamned snow, damn it! 

And I think I'm a little drunk. 

She squinted against the darkness and the haze of falling white; somewhere a little ways off, there was a faint red-orange glow, like flame. It didn't look like it was coming from the castle; it was out on the grounds, almost to the Dark Forest. 

__

Oh, yay, something weird. No peaceful holiday snow-admiring for me. 

The next gust of wind swirled the snow, tossing it and a faint smell of smoke into her face. She blinked snowflakes from her eyelashes and trudged rather glumly forward. _Yep, definitely a fire. A kinda funky-smelling fire. Doesn't smell like wood. _

And it's kinda a *big* fire, Willow realized as she approached. The flames leapt nearly as high as she was tall, dwarfing the slim, hunched silhouette of the person sitting beside the blaze. The figure looked human. A few steps closer, and it looked familiar. 

She was standing right next to the bonfire - which upon closer inspection, looked to be fueled primarily with dark-colored robes, thought she thought she could make out the nearly-incinerated, blackened shape of a broomstick as well, and other things charred and unidentifiable - before the figure even acknowledged her. 

"Hello," Draco Malfoy said tonelessly, not looking away from the fire. 

"Uh, hi," Willow responded. _Are students allowed to make unsupervised bonfires on the grounds? I really don't think so. _

It's Christmas Eve, and his mother just died, and his father's missing, and now he's burning what looks suspiciously like his own possessions . . I am so not sober enough to deal with this. 

I don't suppose I can just leave him here, though. That would not be very teacherly and responsible, would it? 

Teacherly? Is teacherly a word? I think the last six toasts or so were not strictly speaking good ideas. Her shoes squelched on the thawing ground as she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and her cloak dragged in the mud. 

"So what are we burning?" she asked finally, sitting and tucking her long cloak completely under her, boots and all, over the melting snow. _Might as well save the boots, 'cause this cloak is toast. Very muddy toast. _

I'm never buying a single piece of new clothing again. Really. Never. I give up. 

Draco watched her, expression somewhere between disinterested and spitefully amused. It was exactly the sort of blatant, you-are-nothing stare that would have made her cringe back in high school. She fidgeted with the laces of her boots.

__

I hope I'm playing this right. I don't know this kid. He's not my friend, he's got no reason to like me, and honestly, I've got diddly squat in the way of reasons to like him . . most of what I remember about him involves smartassed snarkiness and/or homicidal tendencies. And also I'm kinda tipsy.

But it's Christmas Eve and his mom's dead and he's out here burning stuff in the snow. I think that qualifies for an official truce on all the petty shit.

Not that homicidal tendencies are exactly petty shit, but -

"'We' aren't burning anything," Draco replied in a challenging tone. "I'm out here burning things. You're out here trying to do your teacherly duty and be all consoling and shit and hopefully get me to share my feelings by acting non-threatening." 

__

Well, damn. 

"Well, yes," Willow agreed tentatively. 

"The painfully honest approach isn't likely to work either," Draco said flatly, poking the base of the fire with a stick and staring into the flames. "Don't feel like sharing. Just feel like burning."

"Okay," Willow meeped, feeling very overwhelmed. _No more mulled wine for me. Next year, pumpkin juice. And no nog, either. _

"You're doing great on that non-threatening thing, though," Draco commented. "I'm totally at ease. Not at all intimidated by your status as an authority figure." 

"And in addition to feeling like burning things, you apparently also feel like being an asshole," Willow blurted out, going with the first thought that popped into her head for lack of better ideas.

__

Should I have said that? Probably not. I think there's a paragraph somewhere in the non-existent teacher's handbook for this place that prohibits it. Paragraph two-bazillion-and-three, subsection q - do not call the students assholes. 

Paragraph two-bazillion-and-three, subsection r - do not interact with the students while sloshed. 

He tilted his head to the side, as if considering. "Yeah, pretty much," he nodded after a moment. "The general death and destruction of my entire existence tends to put me in that sort of mood. You're not going to let go of the tactlessness-as-therapy approach, huh?"

"Probably not," Willow answered. "Somebody . . well, somebody shallow and annoying who I still pretty much can't stand, but who occasionally said wise things anyway -"

"Are we nearing a point?" Draco inquired in an exaggeratedly bored drawl.

" - said that tact is just not saying true stuff," Willow finished. "There. Point. Happy?"

"Not remotely," Draco snapped.

"Thanks for sharing," Willow snapped back. 

"Sod off," Draco grumbled, putting both elbows down on his knees and leaning perilously close to the blaze. Something towards the middle of the bonfire crackled and sent up virulent purple sparks. 

"Did you burn your wand?" Willow asked incredulously, and a little worriedly. 

"Why should you care?" he demanded. "Maybe I want to go all wilder and not use one, like you."

"Actually, I was wondering about the environmental ramifications of burning powerful magical objects," she clarified.

"Whatever. So I'll give the Whomping Willow a buzz for the night," he shrugged. 

__

Join the club, Whomping Willow. 

And oh, I am so glad I didn't go to school here. Whomping Willow is so not a nickname I would have enjoyed. 

The fire hissed and snapped again, sending off yet more sparks, the exact violet of a deep bruise. _That so cannot be a good thing. I'm starting to think I shouldn't be inhaling. _

"I wonder why I never thought of that when we were burning demon bodies back home," Willow pondered out loud. _I can't tell if this stream-of-consciousness-talking thing is working or totally crashing and burning .. but he's still replying .. that's a good, right? _

"When you were burning demon bodies," Draco mimicked disbelievingly.

"Yep," Willow confirmed. "Some of them melt, some of them vanish, but some of them just plain lay there and, if left alone long enough, rot, and then smell exceedingly *not* appetizing, so we burned them."

"You know you're a complete freak of nature, right?" Draco inquired belligerently. 

"Yep," Willow agreed again. "I brought marshmallows."

"You brought what?"

"Marshmallows. To the demon-body-burnings. Made it seem less, you know, bizarre and creepy."

He laughed, leaning backwards with his hands on his knees, head tilted skyward. It was just a momentary break in the silence, and then he just stayed there, face to the starless pitch of the sky. His breath made little clouds in the cold. Willow could see his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed, and it took her a moment to realize he was trying not to cry. 

"What in the bloody fuck is a marshmallow?" he asked after a long pause, voice thick. 

__

Huh. Marshmallows are a Muggle thing? Who would have thought.

"They're - "Willow began to explain, and paused, frowning. _How does one define a marshmallow? More importantly, how in the hell does one get one's self into these things? _"Hrmm. Sort of like candy. But, squishy. Like pillows, kinda."

"My pillows aren't squishy," Draco commented. Willow gave the fire a hesitant glance, and he must have caught it, because he added, "I'm not burning those." 

"Oh," Willow nodded, "Well, that's good, I guess. Pillows are nice things to have." _Of course, so are expensive brooms and school robes and, well, I never saw the point of a wand, but - _

"My mother bought the pillows, before my first year," Draco explained, still facing skyward, staring at nothing. "She said the pillows at Hogwarts were lumpy. She started monogramming them and then she forgot about it."

Willow wasn't sure what to say, hearing the gaps in the explanation, the randomness, and remembering what Severus had said about Narcissa Malfoy - Narcissa Black when he'd known her best. _Or, um, known her worst? Does Draco know . . ?_

"Father saw when I was packing for school - she'd stopped right in the middle of the letter 'D' on the second one, and it looked sort of like a hook that somebody'd stepped on. He had the house-elves take it all out and re-do them. Silver thread."

There was another long, painfully awkward pause. _I shouldn't be the one hearing this. _

This kid doesn't have anybody who is the one who should be hearing this, though. The people who should be hearing this are dead or maybe dead or run off with Voldemort. 

"Mum was all upset because I was leaving for school. She'd - I dunno, done something, drank a lot or something, I don't know what. She tried to take the pillowcases back, slapped one of the house elves." 

__

I don't want to be hearing this. 

"Father Imperio'd her and made her lock herself in the linen closet. She was still in the closet when I left for school."

__

Oh God I do not want to be hearing this. I don't want this to have happened for him to be telling it and me to be hearing it. 

Imperio .. that's like . . come on, grow a spine, say it, it's just in your head. It's like what you did to Tara. She let her eyes slide guilty to Draco's face, and hastily away again, irrationally afraid he'd catch her looking again and somehow know. _Know that I'm not the good, teacherly sort of person he thinks I am. _

"She wasn't making any noise or anything, I guess because she was under Imperio, but I knew she was in there."

__

But I'm not - I wouldn't - I never made her lock herself in a closet. It wasn't like that. It just wasn't. 

Or maybe it just wasn't to you. Maybe it never is to the one doing it. Maybe for her, that's exactly what it was like. 

And now there's Severus, and . . I don't deserve this. I don't care what he's done in the past, he's more than reformed, and I don't deserve the person he is now. What I deserve is to be grieving over losing Tara, because I should lose her, because I did awful things, violated her . . it's not fair.

But what do I do? Say no to Severus? Nope, we're not doing this, you can just go back to being alone and friendless and all emotionally retarded because, well, I feel guilty? Sorry, didn't mean to lead you on, but I'm not done punishing myself? Is that fair? 

There's no fairness in the universe, that it hands me more people to love than I know what to do with, when I couldn't even keep from hurting the ones I already had. 

No fairness in a little boy watching his father mentally rape his mother and lock her in a linen closet. 

Willow could hear her breathing, and his, and the crackling of the fire. The snow had melted further and she felt herself sinking ever so slightly into the newly thawed ground. _He deserves someone better than me to be hearing this, somebody completely sober to start with, and somebody with nothing in common with his father, someone who could share in the horror and the not understanding it. _

"Father said if I did well at school that term, he'd teach me how to do that."

"I'm s -" _so sorry, _Willow began to say. _I'm so sorry, Tara, baby. I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry -_

"So what in the hell is a marshmallow, again?" Draco interrupted hastily. "They're like candy pillows?"

"Um, yeah, sort of," Willow managed after a disoriented moment. _I'm the one here. I'm a sorry, pitiful excuse for a human being, but at the moment I'm the only sorry, pitiful excuse for a human being that he's got. _"They're kinda - oh, screw it," she decided, holding out one palm and concentrating. A half-second later, she had a handful of marshmallows, plump and round and white and looking disturbingly out of context. _They look too . . normal. Normal and happy._

You roasted marshmallows over burning demon bodies. Are you sure you actually know what normal and happy look like? 

At least my parents didn't lock each other in closets. 

Narcissa? Are you listening?

I'm doing the best I can, here. This should be you, but it's not, it's me, and I'm trying. 

For both of them. Severus says he's sorry. I guess you know how he can be like that. I'll try to get him to stop beating himself up about it. Not that I want him to forget you or anything, just - well, you know.

I guess you know everything now, being dead. Do you? Know everything? It's not the sort of thing I really felt comfy asking Buffy. And, if you know everything, I guess you know why. And you know, if I were you, I'd be totally having a fit about somebody like me being anywhere near my kid. I'm better now. I promise. 

Of course, you may not know everything. You may also not be able to read minds, and I may be talking to myself. 

But if I'm not - talking to myself, that is - keep a look-out for a tall blonde lady with kinda curly-permed hair. If you guys still have hair. Do you have bodies? Anyway, her name's Joyce, and she makes a mean cup of hot chocolate, if you guys still eat there. And, um, tell her I'm sorry? About Buffy. Um, and Dawn. And Tara. And everything.

And if you guys know everything, she'll know what you mean. Of course, if she knows everything, she already knows I'm sorry. And if she can read minds, then I could just tell her myself. Which just wrecks the whole poetic-ness of that, doesn't it? I hate being smart. 

"They don't look like much," Draco commented, and Willow realized she'd gotten lost in her thoughts long and deep enough that he'd had time to crawl over next to her and peer at the white shapes in her palm, without her even hearing him move. 

"What you gotta do is - here -" she grabbed up the stick he'd been poking into the fire earlier, jabbing a marshmallow onto each of its small branches. One of the twigs snapped, dropping itself and its marshmallow into the fire. "Oh, poop!" Willow exclaimed. "Wasted one."

"Wicked," Draco commented, watching the burning marshmallow blacken and expand to three times its original size, white goo oozing out through the cracks in charred outer shell until it collapsed into a pile of burnt-sugar mush. "It hasn't got some sort of engorging charm on it?"

"Nope, they just do that," Willow said, grabbing his hand and folding his fingers around the end of the stick. "Now, you hold them out like this - no, not *in* the fire, just sorta over it - and you wait until they turn sorta brown -"

"Will they blow up too?" he asked.

"They're not supposed to," she shook her head. "You just supposed to get 'em a little gooey and then eat them." He turned and quirked an eyebrow at her. It took her still faintly alcohol-hazed brain a moment to get it, running the words over in her head, and when she did she blushed furiously.

"Gutterbrain!" she exclaimed, slapping at his shoulder. "I should so take points for that! I'm a teacher, you know!"

"Well, you said it," he shrugged. "I'm a teenaged boy, you expect my brain *not* to take that straight to the gutter?"

"You sound like Xander," she said, wistfully, slouching back down in her cloak and sitting her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees. "He liked to blow up marshmallows too. Then he'd stab at them and make them collapse, and say 'Die, evil marshmallow, die!'" She giggled. "And Giles would say something like 'Do stop,' and sound all British. And Buffy would tell him to loosen up."

"You realize I have no idea who any of these people are?" Draco inquired, frowning in concentration as he tried to rotate the stick so that the marshmallows on one side could be roasted without the ones on the other side being melted. 

"Yeah," Willow sighed. "Your marshmallows look done."

"And now I eat these things?" he asked incredulously. 

"Uh-huh," she affirmed, grabbing one and yelping when her fingers sank into the hot stickiness. She tossed it back and forth between her hands, trying to cool it, and managing to distribute melted marshmallow liberally over her fingers, the ground in front of her, and the tips of her boots. "But don't burn your fingers!" 

"Right," he said doubtfully, watching her antics and then very carefully pulling another marshmallow free. He took a delicate bite. "Not bad," he mumbled around a mouthful. "For a muggle thing, anyway." He grabbed another and popped it into his mouth whole, grimacing a moment later, presumably because his mouth was burning.

"Sugar makes all things good," Willow agreed philosophically, trying to lick the marshmallow goo off her fingers. He gave her an unreadable look. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "I didn't mean - of course, it can't, that was such a stupid thing to -"

"Can you make more of these?" he cut her off, the words rushed together. She stopped. His face had something like panic in it, and pleading. 

"Sure," she nodded. "More marshmallows, coming right up."

***

"What are you doing out of bed?" Molly Weasley demanded in a perturbed whisper, shoving several overstuffed stockings behind her back before planting fists on pajama-clad hips and glaring at her youngest son. "No looking at the tree! You'll spoil it for yourself." On the couch, Ginny rolled over in her sleep and muttered something unintelligible. "And you'll wake your sister!" 

"'m not looking at the tree," Ron mumbled. "Couldn't sleep."

"Shoo, shoo, shoo!" Molly insisted almost inaudibly, ushering him hastily into the kitchen. 

"Sit," she ordered, pointing at a chair, and then turning to rummage in a cabinet. She flinched every time a dish clinked. Ron sat, crossing his arms on the table and sitting his chin on his wrists. A few moments later a steaming mug of hot chocolate was placed, very quietly, in front of him. He stared at it disinterestedly. 

"Now," Molly sat down across from him, folding her own arms and laying her head on one elbow, so she was eye-level with her son, "what's wrong?"

Ron shrugged. 

"Drink your chocolate," Molly insisted. 

"Not thirsty," Ron muttered. Molly sighed and frowned, and waited. 

"'Mione hasn't come out of Ginny's room yet, has she?" he said after a moment. 

"You know she hasn't," his mother answered. "Give her time, dear."

"It ain't right," Ron protested. "It's Christmas."

"Of course it's not right," Molly whispered back sympathetically. 

"It'll be worse for her tomorrow, when all the cousins get here," Ron speculated. "All noisy and happy and . . well, we're a bit much," he said with an apologetic shrug. "And Uncle Ted will get drunk and start singing all different carols all together and then Bethany's triplets will start wailing over something or other -"

"Your Uncle Ted is just -" Molly paused, and then sighed. "Well, alright. Your Uncle Ted is a roaring drunk, I suppose. I guess you're old enough I can say that now." Ron glanced up at her, surprised. "Well, he is, and you are. But don't tell your father I said so." 

"He's *your* brother," Ron protested. "Why would Dad care if you called him a drunk?"

"Oh, he wouldn't," Molly shrugged. "It's just your father's been saying he's a worthless drunken lout for the last thirty years now. So he can't know I agree with him."

Ron just blinked at this, and decided perhaps it was best not to comment. 

"It may not be so bad as you're thinking, for Hermione," Molly suggested. "Your father and I have been speaking to her mother's sister the last few days, about - things, that have to be settled. Anyway, she doesn't come from a big family. It won't remind her."

"'Course it will," Ron argued sullenly. "Maybe it won't remind her of what she used to have, but it'll sure as hell remind her what she doesn't have now, seeing everybody being all happy together."

"Don't swear," Molly admonished, but without real feeling. 

"Sorry," Ron mumbled, as carelessly. 

"I offered for her aunt and her cousins to come here for Christmas dinner," Molly told him; Ron looked up in interest - he hadn't known that. "Or for her to go to them. She didn't want to leave, and they didn't want to come. I think they're not very fond of wizards just now, and she's -"

"She's scared to go anywhere, afraid they won't let her come back," Ron finished. 

"Yes, I expect so," Molly nodded. 

"So she's got nobody," Ron said dejectedly. 

"She has us," Molly suggested. 

"I haven't been all that nice to her lately," Ron confessed, gaze locked on the tabletop, muttering into his pajama sleeve. "Not that I've been mean or anything, just - you know, we just get at each other. I didn't mean nothing by it. Didn't know she was gonna - I mean, how was I supposed to know -" he stopped, fighting not to choke up, not to cry in front of his mother. 

"Of course you couldn't know," Molly said briskly. "You'll just have to take it as a lesson, I guess, that you never do know."

"I was just picking on her about Krum is all," Ron said. "But she got all bent out of shape about it and then I got annoyed 'cause she was acting all high and mighty and not like herself and it just - just turned into this thing, but I didn't mean anything by it. Bloody stupid, really." 

"Don't swear," Molly said, softly. Ron nodded against his pajama sleeve. Suddenly he paused, tense, then looked up, eyes wide with inspiration. 

"Mum," he said hesitantly, hopefully, "I know we're gonna be real crowded tomorrow, I know we haven't got places to put people as is, but do you think - do you think we could fit one more? If he'll come? If we can get him here by then, anyway, but - do you think we could?" 

"Who?" Molly asked, frowning in confusion. 

***

"You're patrolling the corridors?" a scandalized sounding voice demanded in a Scottish brogue far thicker than usual. "It's Christmas Eve!" Severus paused mid-stride, turning to quirk an eyebrow at an obviously quite inebriated Minerva McGonagall.

"Someone has to," he suggested dryly. "If no one did, sooner or later the students would catch on, and then it would be a yearly free-for-all on Christmas Eve."

"Oh, heaven forefend!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes and making an exaggerated dismissive gesture. 

"You're drunk," Snape said flatly. 

"A little," she admitted with an unconcerned shrug. "I swear Albus puts something stronger in the wine. I only toasted . . three, four times I think . . " she frowned in concentration.

"Thirteen," Snape corrected. 

"Hrmm?" Minerva glanced up at him. He sighed loudly, unamused. 

"Thirteen," he repeated. "There were no less than thirteen toasts made tonight, and you emptied a glass to each of them."

"Oh, I did not," she scoffed. "Maybe five or six -"

"Thirteen," he insisted. 

"Don't you have anything else to be doing?" she snipped at him. "On Christmas Eve?"

"No more than you," he retorted. She sighed then, long and wistful, irritation melting away into a ridiculously fragile expression to be found on such a fierce woman's face. 

"Oh, I do," she murmured. "Have something to do, that is. I was just heading up to the Astronomy Tower. Ian and I used to - oh, well, you don't want to know about that," she caught herself, and blushed. 

"Oh," Severus grunted in response, pulling his robes around himself and feeling suddenly awkward. Ian was her husband, who had died in the first war with Voldemort. 

"'Oh'," she mimicked, grimacing at him. "Don't say it like that. I hate it how no one will talk about anyone who's gone. It's sad, but .. it's more sad not to, I think, and it makes me happy to talk about him," she pronounced rather forcefully. "I don't want to forget. And he wouldn't want me moping about."

"Then why are you going up to the astronomy tower, alone?" he asked. _And drunk, _he added silently. It probably wasn't the most tactful question to begin with, but he was attempting not to be completely insensitive. 

"To say goodnight, and merry Christmas," she explained, with another wistful smile, as if that made perfect sense. 

"Ah," he said, nodding along. "Right. Of course." _What in the bloody hell does one say to *that*?_

"Forget the corridors," she suggested, patting his arm as she brushed past him. "Go find that new professor and say goodnight, hrmm?" 

He blinked, blinked again, gaped - and by the time he'd turned around to ask just what exactly she meant by that, Minerva was already gone around a corner, headed up to the Astronomy Tower to wish her dead husband a merry Christmas. 

__

How did she - we've been very discreet, and barely done anything besides - she can't possibly - 

Somewhere deep in the castle, a clock began to chime midnight. Around him, the paintings called out holiday greetings. Down the corridor he saw an pair of ghosts float through, too far away to be recognized but hand in ephemeral hand and clearly exchanging well-wishes with the portraits, until they disappeared back through the stone wall on the other side. A nearby suit of armor began a creaky, faintly echoing rendition of 'O Holy Night.' 

__

On the other hand, who blood cares? 

Merry Christmas, Ian McGonagall. 

Merry Christmas, Narcissa Malfoy - no, Black. Merry Christmas, Narcissa Black. Raise a toast up there for us poor wretched souls down here. 

And if I were a redheaded, babbling, religiously eclectic witch, where would I be at midnight on Christmas Eve? He strode off to find out. 

***

"Hermione?" 

Someone was shaking her shoulders; Hermione whimpered, trying to snuggle deeper down into the bed. She didn't want to wake up. It was warm where she was, and quiet, and blank and empty. She liked it there. 

"Come on, Hermione, you have to get up," the voice insisted. "It's Christmas morning."

That wasn't right. The voice sounded familiar, but not familiar enough for Christmas morning. Ginny, that's it. It was Ginny shaking her awake. Not her mum.

Not ever her mum again, because her mum was dead.

Consciousness returned reluctantly, and with it the dull leaden feeling of misery settled back into her gut as if it had always lived there. 

"Why'd you wake me up?" she protested faintly. She couldn't put much real ire into it, hateful as waking was. It was just too tiring to care much about anything. 

"It's Christmas morning," Ginny repeated. "You have to come down." 

__

What?

It's Christmas morning?

I don't care. I don't care that it's Christmas morning. Why on earth would she think it matters that it's Christmas morning?

Just let me go back to sleep . .

"Come on, up!" Ginny insisted, pulling the covers back off of her. Hermione cringed and curled into a fetal ball, knees tucked up under her chin. 

"Cold," Hermione moaned. 

"Here," Ginny offered; Hermione had to blink her eyes open to see the younger girl holding out a fluffy blue robe. She struggled wearily to a sitting position, muscles protesting; she reached for the robe with a shaking hand and pulled it around her shoulders, not bothering to put her arms in the sleeves. She tried to lie back down, but Ginny had climbed onto the bed behind her and braced a knee on either side of her hips. 

"Want to go back to sleep," Hermione whimpered. _I sound like a little girl. I hate how I sound. Weak. Pitiful. Nobody should be pitying me. Not when it's all my fault - _

"Not now," Ginny said firmly, and something tugged at Hermione's hair. She winced, putting a hand to her scalp. 

"Sorry," Ginny said. "I'm used to straight hair."

"You don't need to brush my hair," Hermione protested. 

"You'll do it yourself?" Ginny asked hopefully.

"It doesn't matter if my hair's brushed," Hermione clarified sullenly. _Nothing matters. _

"Yes, it does, today," Ginny argued, bracing one hand flat against the base of Hermione's skull as she tugged through the tangles, preventing the pulling from causing further pain. Hermione gave up, laying her hands limp in her lap, letting the other girl brush her hair. She could hear other voices downstairs; laughter, shrill and feminine and then deep and booming, and the shrieks of overexcited children. Something down in her gut gave a painful tug at the sound. 

Ginny set the brush aside, crawling off the bed and taking both of Hermione's hands in her own, pulling her to her feet.

"I don't want to go down," Hermione curled her arms around herself.

"Yes, you do," Ginny steered her towards the door, hands on her shoulders. Ginny hadn't turned the light on in the room - Hermione preferred it dark - but it was bright in the hallway. Hermione flinched at the light. 

"Ginny, I don't want -"

"You can come back up in five minutes," Ginny offered placatingly. "Just five minutes, okay? Everyone's worried."

Hermione relented at that, trudging down the stairs, feeling dozens of eyes turning towards her. Ginny and her siblings were all in robes and pajamas like Hermione; there were dozens more people gathered around the tree, all of them in cloaks still faintly sprinkled with melting snow, most of them with some shade of red hair. There were children everywhere, a madly dashing set of auburn-haired toddlers nearly tripping her as she made her way off the last step. It was colder down in the living room too, with a faint breeze and taste of snow that said the door was still opening and closing, admitting yet more guests. 

She spotted Harry's disorderly black hair amidst the sea of red almost instantly, and Ron beside him, both of them standing together near the tree talking to someone else tall and dark-haired. Some of the other Weasley kin had hair that dark, but it tended towards auburn - this person's hair was almost a plain black-brown, not quite the shade of Harry's, but almost. It reminded her - 

- and then he turned around. 

"Hello," said Viktor, looking somewhere between sheepish and desperately worried. He was covered in a faint haze of soot. Ron and Harry turned too. Harry just grinned; Ron shrugged, and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. 

"Merry Christmas," Ron muttered. 

Hermione made a disbelieving choking sound, stumbling another step forward. Viktor was across the room in two strides, catching her to his soot-stained chest. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I would have come right away but it isn't in the papers in Bulgaria yet, I didn't know until Ron flooed last night, I'm so sorry -" he was muttering over and over into her hair. She didn't much care what he was saying; he smelled of floo powder and Quidditch leathers and last summer, last summer when everything was perfect. She blinked and squinted, and the soot was stinging her eyes, and then she was sobbing. 

"I'm making you cry," Viktor said, sounding a little panicked, holding her at arms' length. "Should I not have said anything about it? It's Christmas, you just want me to say Merry Christmas, would that be better?" 

"I think it's okay if she cries," Ginny commented dryly from over Hermione's shoulder. Hermione nodded her agreement. Then she pulled back a little, blinking and glancing around. She extricated herself from Viktor's grasp and flung herself on Ron, who made a startled sort of yelping sound before returning her bone-crushing hug. 

"Thank you," she murmured into his neck. 

"Er, you're welcome," Ron mumbled back awkwardly, patting her back in rather perfunctory way. "You know - you know you're my best girl, right? You're my best friend. I don't care who you date or what the hell you do, you're my best friend." 

"Of course I am," Hermione sniffled. 

***

I heard the bells on Christmas day  
Their old familiar carols play  
And mild and sweet the words repeat,  
Of peace on earth, good will to men.  
  
I thought how as the day had come,  
The belfries of all Christendom  
Had roll'd along th' unbroken song  
Of peace on earth, good will to men.  
  
And in despair I bow'd my head:  
"There is no peace on earth," I said,  
"For hate is strong, and mocks the song  
Of peace on earth, good will to men."  
  
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:  
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;  
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,  
With peace on earth, good will to men."  
  
'Til ringing, singing on its way,  
The world revolved from night to day,  
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,  
Of peace on earth, good will to men

***

TBC . . . 


	20. The Place Between

Title: The Place Between

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Life goes on, everybody's still got issues. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

***

"Should I turn the page?" 

"Hrmm? Almost. My English is slow, I should have been practicing more."

"We could cast a translating charm on it, and I could practice my Bulgarian. Your English is much better than my Bulgarian."

"You got lots of practice this summer. My turn now, since we are in England." 

Ron tried not to glare too hard at the couch; from his seat at the kitchen table he could just see the very top of Viktor's head and the unruly spill of Hermione's hair, trailing down over the couch's arm. They were curled up together - without a blanket, Weasley house rules for co-ed cuddling - reading Ginny's Christmas present to Hermione, "Well-Known Wizards in Muggle History."

__

Looks deadly dull, if you ask me. 

I bet he's not even interested in it. He's probably thinking about Quidditch the whole time, that's why he can't keep up, his English sounds fine to me. 

He's probably thinking about her bum the whole time, seeing as how they're all pressed together like sardines. Probably not thinking with the head on his shoulders at all, the great prat.

Well, you invited the great prat here, and at least she's getting up and showering and speaking to someone now. None of your business if it cheers her up to have her bum shoved in his lap.

It better be his lap.

Well, if their heads are even, and he's a whole lot taller than her, then - 

- then it' s still none of your business, you stupid git. You invited him here. 

"If you say so - where are you at?"

"Here - this word, I don't know - clan-" Viktor broke off, and Ron could practically hear the confused frown. 

"Clandestine," Hermione pronounced. "It means secret."

__

Like, 'My bum is clandestinely shoved in your lap.' 

And I know bloody well if that were me or Fred or George with some girl on the couch, Mum'd have a bloody heart attack, with or without a blanket. If it were Ginny with some bloke, she'd probably keel over and die. 

'Course, with Mum and Dad out doing whatever it is they're doing that they were so secret about, I don't suppose they can object too much - but they were curled up just like that when they left this morning, Mum must have seen them. 

"It sounds like it ought to mean something about family or nation, 'clan,' and then 'destine', that is like your word for - what is supposed to happen? It should mean something like, the fate of the nation, or the family." Viktor paused. "Though that would make no sense there."

"I never thought of that," Hermione said thoughtfully, and Ron saw her hair shift. "I guess it is an odd word." _Oh, right, how impressive, thinking up knew things that words ought to mean - that's not at all like just being a stupid git who just doesn't know what they really do mean. _

"You can turn the page now." 

Ron could hear the faint crinkling of new parchment and Hermione's soft, nearly inaudible sigh as she settled back into reading. A hand with rather overlarge knuckles came into view over the arm of the couch, doing something with her hair. 

__

Stupid prat. 

But . . she does sound almost kinda happy . .

Ron stared glumly down at the parchment resting on the table in front of him. It was mostly blank, a few scant lines taking up barely an inch at the top. _Blaise, _it read - 'Dear Blaise' sounded too strange, and made his ears go red when he thought about writing it - _I'm glad your Christmas was good. That reflecting pool thing sounds neat. Harry says it sounds like a Muggle thing called a 'television'. Weird, huh? Mine was good too. I got a new sweater and some shoes. _

Blaise's letter had been three feet long. He'd skimmed it once, gone to write his reply, and was convinced that he'd answered all her major points in six rather short sentences. He read her letter again, twice, trying to figure out if he'd missed something, but no - he'd imparted roughly the same amount of information she had. Granted, he hadn't elaborated on the color of the sweater or the type of the shoes or written a bloody thesis on the virtues of the exact type of reflecting pool she'd gotten as opposed to the one her cousin got last year, but he thought he'd hit all the key points.

He couldn't tell her anything important, anyway. Dad said there'd be an announcement made at the start of the new term; students who'd lost close friends would likely find out sooner, of course, but Blaise hadn't been close to Pansy, and he didn't think she'd known any of the sixth or seventh years or recent graduates, either. _Makes sense, I guess - even if it's just someone you know to say hi to, you don't want to find out they're dead from rumors. And Dad'd get in trouble if people figured out he was talking about this stuff at home, and then he'd probably stop talking about it. _

So can't just say, well, my mind's not really on reflecting pools just this moment, what with my best friend's parents being dead and also a bunch of other people I was never very nice to or cared for much, but I didn't want them *dead*. Can't say you really ought to be practicing your flying, 'cause I have this feeling Slytherin's gonna have a few openings on the team come the new term. Can't say Viktor bloody Krum is canoodling with my best friend on my couch at the moment, either, not unless I want the house mobbed with bloody reporters, if you were to tell anybody. Can't say *anything*. I got a sweater. Cousin Bethany's pregnant again. How's the bloody fucking weather? 

Anyway, it's just a stupid letter. How do you put stuff like that in a letter? I'd end up sounding like some nancy-boy prat. 

"Are you at the third paragraph yet?" Hermione asked in the murmuring, distracted voice that Ron recognized as meaning she was twisting something around in her brain. _Only Hermione would spend the holiday break all wrapped up in a book, and a book of things that happened bloody hundreds of years ago, at that. _

"Hrm," Viktor grunted, "almost." He sounded just as absorbed in what he was reading as Hermione. 

__

Or else he's a really good faker, and he's just trying to pretend like it's not boring as bloody hell so she'll stay there with her bum in his lap. 

Or, could be his English is so bad he has to concentrate real hard just to figure out what the hell he's reading. Could be both. 

But she seems happy. That's the important thing. The stupid slouching git who can barely read and has one big eyebrow and enough nose for two people and honestly, you'd think someone with as much brains as she has would have the sense to realize there's not a wizard alive that could actually concentrate on a book with her bum shoved up against him - well, he makes her happy. That's what's important. 

"Let me know when you get there, I've got to tell you how they explain that in Muggle history classes. It's odd because -"

The back door into the kitchen swung open, hitting the opposite wall with a bang, and a very muddy Ginny stomped in, grinning and with a quaffle tucked under one arm. "You have *got* to try this!" she announced, bouncing from foot to foot. 

"Don't listen to her," Harry grumbled cheerfully, coming in behind her, followed by the twins. "She just wants someone new to beat on."

"Kicked his ass," George piped in. 

"She's bloody vicious," Fred added. They all looked like they'd been dragged through the yard by their ankles; one side of Fred's head was completely plastered with mud, making his hair stand up at an odd angle. 

"Who won?" Viktor called in from the living room. Hermione rolled over, propping her chin up on the arm of the couch. Her hair fell in her face, and she tossed it impatiently out of the way with one hand. It promptly flopped back over her eyes. 

"Me," Ginny bounced over to a cabinet, grabbing herself a glass, then skipping to the sink to fill it with water. "First me and Harry against Fred and George, and we won, then me and George against Fred and Harry, and we won again, and then I beat the lot of them." "

"Who knew she could run that bloody fast?" George mused aloud. "She's not that fast on a broom." 

"Or kick that hard," Fred commented, making rather tentative kicking motions with his left leg, then testing his weight on it. 

"Too bad there's not a soccer team at Hogwarts," Harry said, plopping down in the chair next to Ron.

"Maybe you could start one," Hermione suggested, flipping her hair back out of her face again with a brief, irate frown. Viktor caught the mass of curls this time, doing something with it that Ron couldn't see behind Hermione's head. "What are you doing with my hair?" she asked, scrunching up her eyebrows and trying to look over the top of her own forehead. 

"Tying it in a knot, so it will be out of your way," Viktor answered. 

"You can't tie hair in knots!" Hermione protested. 

"I do to Ana's all the time."

"And then she wakes up and chases you around the yard with a broomstick!" 

"Is that why she does that?" 

Hermione's response was something unintelligable that involved giggling, and resulted in both their heads disappearing back behind the arm of the couch. Ron scowled. _Mum'd have a bloody seizure, if that were one of us. _

"We could, I suppose," Harry said with a shrug at Hermione's suggestion. "Though I'm not very good. You could see if any of the other Muggleborns know how to play, Ginny."

"It wouldn't work, we'd never get Slytherin to put together a team for a Muggle sport, and probably not Ravenclaw, either," Ginny said. "But we can still play ourselves, anyway, just for fun."

"Oh, right, fun," Fred drawled, rotating his ankle and wincing. 

"Tell Blaise I say hi," Ginny said to Ron, innocently, sipping her water. Fred perked up, losing all interest in his apparently only semi-functional leg. 

"Ooh, Ickle Ronniekins is writing his girlfriend?" George asked, as Fred hobbled over towards the table. Ron snatched up the parchment and shoved it down his sweater. 

"How's Miss Slytherin, Ronniekins?" Fred teased. 

"She's perfectly nice and you shouldn't - " Ginny began to protest, just as Ron snapped back, "How's Angelina?" 

"She's good," Fred said jovially, plopping down in the chair to Ron's other side. "I'm visiting her tomorrow for New Year's." George, who had been getting a glass of water for himself, slammed the cabinet door shut a little harder than was strictly necessary. Ginny turned and glanced worriedly at her brother. The giggling from the living room had progressed into indignant sounding half-shrieks, and then silence, punctuated by sounds of rustling cloth. 

"You never mentioned that," George said in a very flat voice. 

"I'm mentioning it now," Fred shrugged. 

"Fine then," George answered, shrugging back. "If you want to go up to bloody Yorkshire for New Year's, have at it."

"Planning on it," Fred's voice had dropped to a low and serious pitch that Ron wasn't sure he'd ever heard before. 

"Best not say that in front of Mum," George suggested, jerking the faucet on without looking where it was pointing, and accidentally dousing the front of his shirt. Out in the living room, Hermione suddenly sat up, looking touseled and flustered. She fairly flung herself off the couch, pausing only to retrieve the forgotten book from where it had fallen to the floor. Viktor's head appeared a moment later, frowning. 

"Hermione?" Ginny inquired, sounding faintly concerned. Hermione looked up, face flushed, eyes wide and ready to overflow with tears. 

"Oh," Hermione said, glancing rapidly back and forth between the kitchen full of Weasleys and Viktor, who sat perched uneasily on the edge of the couch. Ron felt something clench in his chest. "Oh, I'm - I'm just going upstairs to - I think I should - I'm going to take a nap." She fled, book clutched to her chest. 

Viktor moved to follow her; Ron was out of his chair and across the kitchen so fast he wasn't sure his feet actually touched the ground in between. "She doesn't need your help to take a nap," he snapped at Viktor, blocking his way. 

"She is upset," Viktor glowered down at him.

"Noticed that," Ron retorted. "What the hell happened?"

"Ron, don't," Ginny appeared beside him, laying a restraining hand on his arm. 

"Don't what?" Ron demanded. _Why does no one ever take my side? _"Don't ask for an explanation? They were on the couch doing *stuff*, and then she -"

"She laughed," Viktor interrupted. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and stared at the floor. "I didn't mean to upset her. Should have just kept reading the book, I guess. Shouldn't have tried to make her laugh." 

Ron opened his mouth to ask what in the hell Viktor was babbling about, but unfortunately it began to make sense. _She feels guilty that she was laughing. Probably feels guilty about whatever they were doing that was making her shriek like that, too, but I don't think it's all about that. She doesn't want to be happy._

Doesn't feel like she ought to be happy. 

"Oh," Ron grunted, feeling like a heel. _I got him here so she could have something to be happy about , but now that's just making her more upset. What the bloody hell are you supposed to do with someone who's sad about being happy? _

I thought I'd done something right for her. I haven't got a bloody clue what to do now. 

"You think we should check on her?" Harry asked, joining them at the base of the stairs. "Make sure she's, you know, not - that she's alright?"

"I was not meaning to make her upset," Viktor said again, rather miserably. Ron noticed that the more worried he got, the heavier his accent became, and the more his shoulders slumped. _If he'd been here when she first found out, I think he might have curled himself all the way around into a circle, with his shoulders at his toes. _It made him uneasy, seeing how much Hermione's distress was disturbing Viktor. It reminded him of his mum and dad, and the way they'd seem to catch moods off of each other the way other people catch colds. 

__

He's a decent enough bloke, I suppose, but . . I didn't think they'd be like this together . . didn't think they'd act so . . so *permanent*. 

"It's not your fault," Harry grumbled, in a tone that suggested he thought it might well be his own fault. "It's Voldemort who's responsible." Ginny jumped and hissed at the name spoken out loud, and Ron flinched. Viktor, oddly enough, reacted least of all - his frown deepened a little, but that was all. 

"Don't *say* that!" Ron snapped at Harry. "Look, you scared Ginny." Ginny whipped around to glare at him, and Ron blinked at the look on her face. He might have expected indignation - she didn't much like being treated like a girl, or having it suggested that she was scared, ever - but the look he saw on her face wasn't indignant, and he didn't understand it at all. It was a very hard look, and almost frightening. 

"He didn't scare me," Ginny said tonelessly. "It's just a name, and it's a stupid name at that - something a little boy would make up to play pretend. 'Oh, I'm Lord Voldemort, so I guess I don't have to be scared of the dark now.'" 

"Huh?" Ron said, wincing when she repeated the name. "He's not *pretend*, Ginny, for Merlin's sake -"

"That's not what she meant," Harry interrupted, watching Ginny quite intently. "She's got a good point, it's just a made-up name, to make him sound impressive." 

"What else would he be called?" Viktor asked, frowning thoughtfully. 

"Riddle, I guess, Tom Riddle," Harry shrugged. "Maybe we should all call him that - after all, he doesn't want to be known by that name, and anything he doesn't want is good, right?" 

"I'm going to check on Hermione," Ginny said in that same emotionless voice, and hurried away up the stairs. 

***

"I don't need anything in there," Draco said flatly, crossing his arms and stopping dead as Severus reached for the door to Quality Quidditch Supplies. 

After a few moments of aggravated shuffling and hasty re-balancing of oversized bags full of school robes, books, and various other necessities, and when he was sufficiently certain that he was not going to topple headlong through the door and crush his student in the process, Severus snapped out, "You will need a new broom. Perhaps you were planning on acquiring one at the bookstore? Or the apothecary, perhaps?" His tone could have peeled paint; he thought it was eminently reasonable, given the circumstances. 

__

There are several levels of hell that could provide a more pleasant day's entertainment than Diagon Alley in the week after Christmas - and that's not even taking into account the company of the so charming Mr. Malfoy. 

"I don't need a new broom," Draco retorted, not budging. 

"You cannot represent Slytherin as Seeker on a school broom," Snape ground out. "Your old broom is currently a large quantity of ash. Therefore, you need a new one." Passers-by were beginning to take notice the argument, most likely because they were still blocking the doorway. A witch dragging two young daughters and an armful of bags that rivaled Snape's own burdens gave him a very nasty look as she tried to squeeze past them into the shop.

__

Perhaps there's something to be said for a solitary lifestyle. For instance, I never had the misfortune to reproduce, and thus the experience of being publicly humiliated by a recalcitrant child is rather new. 

Though perhaps if I'd had a son of my own, I'd have some idea what in the bloody hell I'm supposed to do now. 

"I wasn't planning on representing Slytherin as Seeker on a school broom," Draco answered, mimicking Severus' tone in clear and unabashed mockery. 

__

If any son of my own ever acted this way, he could just bloody well go home without a broom, and see if being dumped on the pitch in the middle of a game by one of those ancient artifacts the school keeps didn't teach him something. 

"And were you planning on transfiguring one of your textbooks, or stealing a broom from one of your housemates?" Snape pressed. His voice had taken on a definute edge, one usually reserved for Hufflepuff first years and Neville Longbottom. 

"I wasn't planning on representing Slytherin as Seeker," Draco clarified. Snape blinked, and was grateful to be facing the back of the boy's head, as he suspected Draco would gain a great deal of satisfaction from his flabbergasted expression. 

"You were not -" Severus began hesitantly. 

"I don't want anything my father bought me," Draco interrupted, bitterly. "I burnt everything else, but burning the entire stadium seemed a little extreme, so I figure I'll just resign." 

"I see," Snape responded, and keeping his voice unemotional required some effort. The sentiment was entirely too familiar for comfort, too like himself at that age, though the circumstances were wholly different. 

__

If I had a son of my own, I think I'd move heaven and earth to make certain he never, ever entertained such a thought. 

"Not going to argue that I earned my place?" Draco turned around to sneer at him. "No eloquent protestations that my House needs me?"

"Do not insult my intelligence, Mr. Malfoy," Snape drawled, outwardly cool and disdainful. For a long moment they stared at one another, Draco's gaze blatantly challenging, full of all sorts of bitter and hateful things that Snape knew on a first-name basis. He merely quirked an eyebrow in response. 

"Don't call me that," Draco snapped, and shoved past him. Overburdened with bags as he was, it was a few tense seconds before Severus was entirely sure that he was not going to topple backwards and crack his skull on the cobblestones. 

"Do not call you *what*?" he hollered after Draco's swiftly retreating form, stalking after him as best he could while encumbered with the shoddy, post-holiday-sale replacements for most of the boy's earthly possessions. _Damn it, if he doesn't slow down, I'm going to lose him in the crowd. Wouldn't that be a fine crowning moment to this wretched year, misplacing a student. _

"Don't call me *Malfoy*!" Draco turned and yelled back. 

*** 

Daylight was just beginning to fade when Ginny emerged from her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Hermione was asleep, though as Ginny left she was still frowning, and in the dim light her normally vibrant complexion was pale, her lips nearly the same color as the rest of her face, bearing just the faintest hint of lavender to distinguish them. Ginny paused at the upstairs window, leaning her elbows on the sill, looking out over the lawn. She and her brothers had charmed it free of snow earlier so Harry could teach them how to play soccer; in the red light of sunset it now looked like a gaping wound in the otherwise pristine white landscape. 

She leaned her head on one hand, and her hair crackled as it was pressed between cheek and palm. Lifting her head again, she held a single mud-encrusted strand out for her inspection, and grimaced. She shove off from the windowsill and trudged her way to the bathroom, an assortment of previously unnoticed aches and bruises making themselves felt along the way. 

Ginny had to peel her muddy clothing away from her body, a process that proved mildly painful when the dried mud stuck to the tiny hairs on her arms. The pipes rattled and clanked when she turned the hot water on - the house was otherwise quiet. 

__

I probably should have found Viktor and told him Hermione's . . . 

Hermione's what, exactly? Okay? By what warped definition does passing out from emotional exhaustion qualify as 'okay'? 

Or more to the point, when did you start defining 'okay' as 'not dead'?

The hot water sluicing over her bare skin felt wonderful; for a few moments she just stood there with the water beating down on her back, breaking up the clumps of mud in her hair, easing the slight ache of unfamiliar exertion down the backs of her legs, enjoying the sensations. Then she thought of Hermione, passed out on her bed and frowning in her sleep, and was nearly overwhelmed with guilt.

__

Oh Merlin, oh God, how can I relax when everything's so terrible . . I'm spoiling myself with a long hot shower when she can't even stand to be happy by accident. 

But isn't that just what you were telling her was silly? Not letting herself be happy, not letting herself enjoy anything? Weren't you just saying her parents wouldn't want that?

But her parents are dead, and thus free to be magnanimous about the whole experience. She's alive, and I'm sure there's something I could be doing to help her while I'm wasting time and wasting hot water and - 

- there was never enough hot water in the showers, at the orphanage. In the winter the boys would try to hide, or fake illness, to avoid the showers. The water would be frigid, and the rooms they'd come back to dripping and with their socks soaked through from the wet floor would be scarcely warmer. At least one boy died every winter. Hiding was difficult though - cleanliness is next to Godliness, according to Headmaster . And Jupiter was the next best thing to the devil.

Jupiter was an enormous, grotesquely fat Bull Mastiff. Indulging little boys spoiled them, and put their souls in danger, but not so spoiling dogs, who had no souls. Tom readily believed that - that Jupiter had no soul. What he lacked in muscle or dignity he more than made up in sheer malice. If boys went missing when it was time for showers, or prayers or chores, Jupiter would be loosed in the dorms. Still, sometimes it seemed worth the risk, if it was cold enough. At least one boy per winter added up to a lot of boys. To Tom's knowledge, Jupiter had only killed a boy once. 

No! 

I was never there. My name is Ginny. I've always had hot showers. I've never hidden in the chimney and felt him sniffing at my feet and he would have bitten them off if it hadn't been too narrow for him to fit his shoulders, and he couldn't quite reach, but the Headmaster heard the fuss and - 

- NO! Ginny. I am Ginny. I am not Tom. 

Why shouldn't you enjoy a hot shower while the mudblood's passed out from crying? They owe us, you know. How many nights did I go to sleep crying? Do you suppose they skipped on hot showers for that? Because the little whoreson bastard freak was upset? The little devil-spawn was upset because he got whipped again? Well, he wouldn't get whipped if he weren't unnatural, if he didn't have the devil in him that made things happen when he got upset, now would he? That's what they think of us. They'd like to see us all dead, for no better reason than that we're better than them. 

No, no, NO! My name is GINNY! And Hermione is my friend, and I never - I never thought that, I would never think that, I never - 

Oh, you'd never, hrmm? How do you know what you'd never? How amusing, the girl who's always had hot showers talking about what she'd *never*. 

Go away. Please. Please go away. 

I did go away, remember? Your precious Harry killed me. Twice, even. I'm all gone. I'm not real at all. 

Please - 

See what comes of caring about Muggles? You'd be enjoying your nice hot shower if it weren't for her, wouldn't you? 

Ginny crouched in the corner of the shower, knees drawn up to her chest, and sobbed. The hot water rained down on her, dripped from her shaking legs and slid away down the drain. 

***

Ron was still staring at Blaise's letter. In the last two hours he'd thought of exactly two more sentences; she would now know that his new sweater was maroon (again), and his new shoes were snow boots. Why she should care, on either count, he didn't know, but it took up more space. He was sitting on the couch in the living room; the twins and Harry were back outside again, fine-tuning their soccer skills. Vitkor was mostly pacing in front of the stairs, though every now and then he'd sit down and try to read one of the journals Percy'd left lying on the coffee table. They didn't hold his interest very long, though - not that Ron could blame him, they were all about the finer points of cauldron-forging - and then he'd be up and pacing again. 

__

I think I'll be happy when the new term starts, Ron wrote. 

A few moments later the couch shifted with someone else's weight. Ron glanced sideways at Viktor, who happened to also be glancing sideways at him. They both looked quickly away. 

"The wizards who did this - your father tells me not all of them are caught?" Viktor said into the awkward silence. Ron looked up hesitantly; Viktor was studying his own boots with great intensity. _'Who did this.' He can't say it either. The great Viktor Krum can't say "murdered" out loud either. _

"Not all of them, but the Ministry's still looking," Ron answered cautiously. Viktor nodded. 

"When they are caught, they will be punished, yes? It will go hard for them?" 

"Yeah, I'd think so," Ron said. "The ones they did catch, they're talking about them getting the Kiss." 

"Good," Viktor said flatly, and Ron found himself grudgingly agreeing. A few more awkward moments ticked by, in which Viktor picked at his shoelaces, and Ron pondered how to close a letter to a girl he wasn't sure why he was dating. 

"If it does not - if they do not catch them, or the punishment is not so much, you will tell me?" Viktor asked. 

"I guess, if you want," Ron frowned. "Why?"

"There are people -" Viktor began uneasily, frowning at the floor. "I do not usually get involved with such people, but there are people, with an interest in Quidditch, very rich people. Such people, they can - arrange things." 

"Oh," Ron said, dumbstruck. "Um, okay." Viktor looked up at him, expression earnest and for once looking young enough to remind Ron he was only a year older than Fred and George. 

"I don't - I do not usually deal with those sorts of people," Viktor explained. "I don't want you to think, or tell Hermione -"

"I won't tell Hermione," Ron assured him. _I really can't picture telling anybody about this conversation. _Viktor nodded, and seemed relieved. 

"Good, I'm glad you understand," Viktor said. "I wouldn't want -" he glanced towards the stairs, "- I wouldn't want for nothing to be done." _I wonder if I'm supposed to be offended on behalf of the English Ministry now, _Ron thought inanely, c_onsidering he seems to think we're incompetent._

"You care about her," Viktor pronounced suddenly, turning back to peer quite intently into Ron's face. Ron shifted uncomfortably, and glanced down at the letter to Blaise. 

"Yeah, I do," he answered. "She's my best friend. Yeah, I care about her a whole lot," he affirmed, screwing up his courage. "But she likes you, so - so I guess I've just gotta care enough about her to - well, just don't hurt her, or I'll find some people who can arrange things too," Ron finished, returning Viktor's stare. _And now I'm going to get thrashed within an inch of my life. Merlin, I am *bloody* stupid. I couldn't have just said "yeah, we're friends", could I? _

"Good," Viktor said again, nodding firmly, and pushing himself up off the couch. "That is good. I am going to go ask Harry to teach me about soccer now," he announced, and slouched off and out the back door. Ron watched him go, feeling vaguely as if he'd just been hit in the head with a bludger. Repeatedly. 

***

"Suprise!" 

Severus nearly dropped his many shopping bags onto the cobblestones outside the Leaky Cauldron.

"Hopefully this is a good surprise," Willow said, biting her lip. She stood in a pool of dim golden light from the lamp just outside the door, bundled up in a rust-colored cloak with a huge hood that flopped down over her left eye. He wanted to bite her lip, too. He wanted to fall at her feet and kiss her boots just for being there. "Is it a good surprise? Dumbledore told me where you'd gone and said you might want some company, so, here I am. He thought it was a good idea. Which probably should have been my first clue that it might not be a good idea, huh? Don't be mad. Hi, Draco." 

"Hello," Draco grunted. Willow frowned at him. 

"Why is Professor Snape carrying all the bags?" she asked.

"He's the one that wanted me to get all this crap," Draco answered with a shrug. Willow's frown deepened; she stomped forward and grabbed a set of bags from Snape's unresisting hands. She turned and swatted at Draco with one of them. _He's lucky it's the one with robes, and not one with books._

I'm sure I actually would have survived the next five minutes without her appearance. I am capable of procuring dinner for myself and one student. It's even possible I would have survived trudging back out after dinner and braving the process of wand selection. 

But I don't think I've ever been quite so grateful to see someone in my life. 

"Hey!" Draco protested, dancing out of the way of the shopping-bags-turned-weapons. Willow stopped, and held the bags out to him with a pointedly raised eyebrow. He scowled, but took them. 

"You're not mad?" Willow pressed, walking up to Severus and taking two more bags off his hands. 

__

Not mad? 

Would it be completely inappropriate to toss all this useless rubbish aside and ravish her in the middle of the street? 

He settled for saying, "No," with a faint quirk of his lips that couldn't really be called a smile. He rather thought she'd understand, and hoped Draco wouldn't. 

It had long been his experience that hope was a lying bitch. Draco looked from Snape, to Willow, and back to his Head of House again. 

"You two - you're - oh, gag me," Draco exclaimed, before stomping past them into the pub, dragging the shopping bags along the cobblestones behind him. 

"Oops," Willow said sheepishly. "Um, are you still not mad?" 

***

TBC . . 


	21. Home Again

Title: Home Again

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

I am aware that "New Moon Rising" aired in May, a good five months after "Hush" (i.e. from when Willow met Tara to when they became a couple) - however, if you look at the continuity of the season, there's a real-time gap between February and April that doesn't occur in story-time. When you knock out those months, "New Moon Rising" takes place in story-time sometime around March. 

***

Hermione's home had always been a fairly quiet place. Not silent, there was frequently the classical music her mother liked, or one of her father's political commentators on the radio, or just the soft senseless noise of voices downstairs after she'd gone to bed, the rustle of turned pages, the faint rattle of teacups in saucers. There was passing traffic outside, and the neighbors coming and going in the early morning, the sizzle of bacon frying. It was Hermione's experience that life went on quietly, in a thousand little noises that meant everything was okay. Her father was downstairs reading the paper. Her mother was making breakfast with one hand holding a book out away from the stove, arm straight to keep the pages out of range of splattering grease. They'd be talking, often about two entirely different things and aware the other was only half-listening, just comfortably co-existing. 

Ginny rolled over in her sleep, rustling her pile of blankets on the floor. She'd refused to take her own bed back, so Hermione lay there, staring at a water spot on the ceiling. 

The ghoul had been clattering away incessantly until an hour ago, but evidently even ghouls need to sleep eventually, because it was silent now. There was no traffic on the dirt lane outside, no neighbors close enough to be making noise. She knew Mr. Weasley was out at work; in another half-hour or so Percy would be stirring, getting ready to get into the office early. He didn't eat breakfast, just charmed himself up a cup of coffee and tried to sneak out the door before Mrs. Weasley woke. Sometimes he made it, sometimes he didn't and was forced to sit and wait to eat toast and eggs. 

Breakfast rarely contained any meat in the Weasley household; she'd never really considered what bacon or sausages cost before. She'd never thought of her family as well-to-do. She supposed they had been. 

She was going to sell the flat in London, she'd decided, sometime there in the dark - carefully not thinking of it as *home*. She'd thought about going back, just once more, and had gotten sick. After much persuasion Mr. Weasley had finally let her read the Muggle police report. The window that backed to the alley where her mother had kept her rather untidy little garden had been shattered in. That would need to be repaired before the house could be sold. 

__

That's my responsibility now. 

I suppose the furniture should be sold . . dishes, and clothes, and books . . all Dad's old newspapers . . something will have to done with all of that. 

I haven't got anywhere to keep twenty years of notable events in British history, as reported by the Times. Or the dishes that were grandmother's. Or Mum's perfumes. 

I could keep the house. Move back there over the summer. It's all taken care of, all the legalities of it, the Weasleys saw to that. In the Muggle world I'm an emancipated minor; in the Wizarding world I'm just an adult. I could live there, by myself.

Alone. 

No sounds but my own sounds, and Crookshanks. The only sounds at night would be Crookshanks chasing mice. 

There are probably mice; it's probably infested by now. Mice and cockroaches eating everything they left in the larder, all the food going bad, moths getting into the laundry that was never finished, mildew growing in the cracks between the tile, the ivy up the back wall prying into the window frames . . it's sitting there rotting, untended . . rotting . . oh God they were cut up, 'lacerations', that's what they call it in the coroners' report, a bad car accident on a back country road courtesy of the Ministry of Magic, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office . . lacerations from the windshield, and someone must have noticed the house sitting empty and broken into it later . . just an accident . . it was the glass, the shattered glass . . 

Hermione bit her lip hard to keep from making any sound. Something large seemed to catch in her throat, large enough to be a scream if she let it out. She bit down hard enough to taste blood, and screwed her eyes shut. 

__

They must have been so scared . . so scared . . did they think someone would come for them? Did they think, with all the carefully edited stories I'd told them about Harry, that someone was sure to come riding to the rescue? That I lived in some sort of fairy-tale world where of course everything always turns out for right and good, isn't that the point of having magic, isn't that the whole point? 

Did they think I would save them? 

What was I doing, just then, just exactly then? Was I still on the train? The Ministry stormed Malfoy Manor just at sunset. It would have been just a little after that, then. Maybe fifteen minutes, a half-hour . . 

It wouldn't have been one moment. Not one exact moment. There was a ritual, it would have taken some time. 

They would have been waiting, helpless, tied down, there would have been time . . seconds ticking by, minutes, did they want it over, did they want to stretch those last seconds? Did they understand? 

Cause of death was hemorrhage. Severing of the carotid artery. Discoloration of the skin around the lacerations to the extremities indicates injury close to time of death. 

I shouldn't have read that. Mrs. Weasley was right, I didn't want to know that, I shouldn't - but oh, yes, I should. I should know every bloody gory detail. I should know things I'm never going to know, I should know if they screamed, I should know if my mother was crying, I should know who died first.

I should know who held the knife. Oh, I know who gave the orders, but I want to know who carried them out. Who tied them down. Who felt their blood splattered on their skin, still warm, it would have been all over, a severed artery won't just bleed quietly, not quietly, not quiet, it's never going to be quiet again it's not quiet inside my head I can't hear anything but glass shattering. 

It wasn't a stupid fucking car accident how can they be that stupid how can they just fucking accept that, oh yes, car accident, of course never mind the epidural hematoma that even the Muggle pathologist noticed, never mind the blood pooling in my mother's skull for eighteen hours before she died, must have occurred post-mortem, because of course they were killed in a fucking car crash, what else could have happened to the Grangers? It's a nice normal sort of death for a nice normal sort of couple, don't you think? Just the way dentists are supposed to die, if they don't die in their beds of old age. A car crash, or an electrical fire, so very tragic but normal, nothing to be done about it, no one's fault, no way anyone could have seen it coming.

It was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - 

They should have had a normal daughter. Maybe slightly eccentric. Maybe someone who'd try to grow roses in the alley like Mum did. Maybe somebody who'd collect newspaper clippings like Dad. They'd be alive if they had. 

If I'd never been born, they'd be alive. 

I can't go back to school tomorrow . . I just can't . . 

Hermione peeled the covers back as quietly as she could; she was wearing only a night-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, and thought about finding a robe, but discarded the idea as too potentially noisy. Ginny never stirred as she crept from the room, out into the grey dimness of the hallway, just filling with the first light of morning. The stairs creaked, and she paused half way down, digging bare toes into the carpet, afraid she would set the ghoul off again, but it didn't seem to care. Below her in the living room, however, she could hear Viktor shifting on the couch. 

"Hello?" he called out softly, propped up on one elbow so he could see over the back of the couch. 

"It's just me," she whispered back, hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs. In the dim light his worriedly frowning face was all planes and angles, making him look more like some fantastically grim sculpture than an actual person. 

"Are you alright?" he asked. Hermione shrugged, and perched on the arm of the couch, not looking at him and suddenly not sure why she'd come down. He pulled off one of the many blankets Mrs. Weasley had insisted he needed and slung it over her knees, so that her bare legs were covered. 

He'd been doing things like that constantly since he got there, making these little protective gestures; she couldn't remember him doing that last summer. She hadn't asked him about it; they hadn't talked much at all, actually, about anything of significance. They'd read together, and played chess, and he'd convinced her to let him take her on a short, dizzying broom ride over the fields behind the Burrow. He'd held her while she just sat there and stared, unmoving, unfeeling, barely aware of his presence; and a very few times he'd held her while she cried. She'd cried very, very little; she hadn't talked at all. 

__

What is there to talk about? My parents were tortured to death and it's awful and there's nothing to be done about it, and that's all. Nothing to say. 

"You're leaving in the morning," she blurted, voice smaller and younger than she'd intended. Viktor sat up and tugged her down off the couch arm, so that she was sitting almost in his lap. She let her hair fall forward to cover her face. 

"I will visit again," he said. "Next weekend, if you like. It can only be one day because there is a game on Sunday, but - well, no, never mind that. I can miss the game if you like."

"No you can't," she protested tonelessly. "You'll be booted off the team."

"It doesn't matter," he insisted, and she felt him shrug. "It is only Quidditch."

"It's only what you do for a living," she retorted. "You can't - you can't stop doing the things you do just because -" her voice caught. She bit down on her already bruised lip, trying to swallow the tears, small noises like some trapped animal coming from the bottom of her throat. 

"That is true," Viktor said, very carefully. His fingers were tracing senseless patterns on her knee. 

"I don't want to go back to school," she confessed. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"Because - I don't know," she said, defensively, shrugging a little ways away from him, pulling the blanket up around her waist and hugging herself. "It's stupid."

"I doubt that," Viktor answered. "You do very few stupid things."

"Oh, but when I do, I really make them count," Hermione said scathingly. _Like not telling them, trying to make it seem less dangerous, make it seem like it was all just a big adventure, nothing that could actually hurt me . . I was afraid of them being worried, worried about me . . I never thought . . I never *thought*, I am so, so*stupid* . . and so, so sorry._

But there's no point to that now, is there? 

"Going back to school, it will be - going back to normal things?" Viktor guessed hesitantly. "You do not want things to go on like before. It doesn't seem right that they should." 

She glanced back at him, but his face was still just abstract shapes in the dark. She leaned back and nodded against his chest. "It'll make it real," she whispered. _Maybe I came down here to talk, before he's gone and we can't talk. _

I don't want him to go. I don't want him out of my sight. Or Ron or Harry, or Ginny, or Mr. or Mrs. Weasley or . . or anyone. I'd like to just put all of them, everyone I care about, in one little room where it's quiet and safe and there are no windows and no glass and nothing can break and I can just stay here, just stay here and be held forever and know nothing can happen . . nothing can happen again because I'd die. 

"Isn't that stupid?" she said self-deprecatingly. "As if it's not real now."

"It is not stupid," Viktor brushed her hair out of her face, fingers lingering over the curve of her ear. "I don't want to go, either. I do not know how I am supposed to think about Quidditch." 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking up at his shadowed face. "You shouldn't -"

"Yes I should," he interrupted her, rather fiercely though quietly. 

"I think I might keep the house," she said. "I thought I'd made up my mind to sell it, but now I'm not sure again. But I don't know how I can keep it if I'll be at school most of the year . . rent it out, I guess."

"You will think of something," Viktor answered, sounding very confident of that. "I think it would be better to keep it. I think you would be sorry if you sold it now, better to keep it at least a little while, live there a little while, to have new things to remember." 

"What if I can't do this?" she said almost inaudibly, aware her thoughts were whirling nonsensically, like bits of paper caught in a wind, but unable to stop talking now that she'd started. "I feel like I can't even think sometimes, what if it's like that at school? What if I can't concentrate or study or remember anything, and I mess everything up and -"

__

- and then I'll have nothing, absolutely nothing left. 

"You will do well," Viktor said very firmly. 

"But what if I *can't*?" she insisted. 

"Then you will anyhow," he said, as if that actually made sense. And strangely, it did. It wasn't exactly comforting, but it rang true, and made her remember the first time she'd seem him, blood gushing down his face from a broken nose he'd gotten catching the snitch in the World Cup. Ron had said he'd done it to end the game on his own terms. 

"Then I will anyhow," she repeated, nodding, chin up, trying to be strong. 

"Or I will come hex your professors if they do not give you good marks," Viktor suggested with a lopsided shrug, and she grinned in spite of herself. "You should go now, before Percy comes down," he went on reluctantly. "That one, he will see us and think the wrong things."

"It'd be none of his business, I'm legal now," Hermione answered, still leaning against the curve of his shoulder. He twitched ever so slightly, and a moment later she realized what she's suggested and pulled away.

"That was a stupid thing to say," she shook her head, scolding herself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - I mean, not that I don't want -" he stopped her rambling with a kiss, just a quick brush of lips, his large and rather boney hand cradling one side of his face. 

"But not now," he finished for her.

"Yes," she said with a relieved sigh. "Just - not now, not yet." He tilted his head to the side, considering. 

"Keep the house," he said. "For this summer, for making better things to remember." 

Her heart was thudding heavily in her chest, with something other than grief for the first time in days. _This summer. _It brought up too many conflicting emotions to handle all at once; fear-tinged anticipation and the sensory awareness of just how close they were right now, first and foremost. The cynical realization that he was trying to get her thinking of the future, and gut-clenching guilt at the idea of keeping her parents' house to do something they would surely disapprove. Beneath it all was a tingle somewhere towards the base of her spine that wanted to say she'd changed her mind, she wanted him right now. _Hold me. Make me feel alive. _

"This summer," she whispered back. 

Someone muttered a charm and the living room flooded with light. Hermione flinched and squinted her eyes, blinking at the stairs. 

"Good morning," Percy was glowering at her in a way that suggested it was anything but a good morning, looking very official in his Ministry robes. 

"Good morning," Viktor returned, and muttered something under his breath in Bulgarian. Hermione didn't catch all of it, but she what she did understand was not terribly flattering. 

"How long have you been down here?" Percy demanded of Hermione, tone blatantly accusatory. She felt Viktor tense, and part of her wanted to let him defend her honor - but another part, a part she'd begun to think had died and gone completely, sparked to unexpected life. She stood, brushing a soothing hand across Viktor's shoulder in the process, and watched Percy turn an interesting shade of red at her bare legs. 

"Long enough," she pronounced haughtily, and swept past him up the stairs. 

__

It's not okay, it's not going to be okay, but . . I think I might survive, at least. I think I might make it to the summer. 

***

Willow entered Snape's rooms with only a brief knock to announce herself; he hadn't yet given her the password, but he had taught the door to recognize her, and allow her in. She paused just inside, lips quirking upward in surprised affection. In one hand she held a plate of sausage and toast, a teacup balance at the center. 

"Yes?" he inquired, not glancing up from the ancient tome that rested on his knees, where he sat in the center of his sitting room floor. From the arrangement of the multitude of books, scrolls, and old newspapers that had taken over his quarters, it looked like he'd started at the desk, and migrated to the floor when the desk had been overrun. Various glyphs in phosphorescent hues hung over the different piles of text, apparently denoting their purpose, and there was a partially-rolled scroll on the floor beside him, on which he was jotting notes in bright red ink. 

"That's where I left that," Willow commented. 

"I ran out of more sensible inks," Severus responded, not needing to ask what she was referring to, "and it was convenient, if rather nauseating." 

"No big," Willow shrugged, pulling her robes and skirt tight to her legs with one hand as she picked her way through the maze of precariously balanced books. She sat down beside him, tucking her knees up to her chest to fit in the tiny square of available floorspace. "You'll just owe me for ever and ever and ever." He snorted. "Missed you at breakfast," she went on. "Do you mean that literally, that the red ink makes you nauseous? Like, looking at it makes you all pukey? 'cause that could mean you're prone to migraines, if you get light and color-sensitive." 

"I was aware of that, and I do, in fact, suffer from migraine headaches, though they are most often brought on by brainless students, not by brightly colored inks, which I merely find insipid," he responded, scratching a comment on the parchment. "They do not make me physically ill." 

"That's good," Willow responded, holding the plate out in his direction. "Brought you breakfast." He looked up for the first time, smiling ever so faintly - she wouldn't have even counted the nearly undetectable movement of his lips as a smile on anyone else. 

"Thank you," he murmured, taking the plate in one hand and lifting the teacup to his lips with the other. He frowned slightly when he sipped, then held the cup out a short distance from his face, contemplating it. "What did you add to the tea?"

"The great Potions Master can't tell?" Willow teased. He glared at her, then took another tentative sip. 

"A ridiculous quantity of sugar, obviously," he commented. "Cinnamon. Cloves." 

"Allspice and orange peel," she finished for him. "It's just usual mulling spices. You know, last day of break and all." He quirked a questioning eyebrow. "Things haven't been very festive, so I'm clinging to the last dregs of festivity I can find. Hence, mulled tea." 

"And you feel the need to impose these last dregs upon me as well," he commented. 

"You don't like it?" she frowned. He grimaced, and sipped again. 

"It's actually rather good," he conceded grudgingly. "You've done something different in the measuring of the spices, the wine always has -"

"- waaaay too much cinnamon," Willow nodded. "Albus has this major love affair with cinnamon in the mulled wine, I noticed. This has more cloves." 

"It's an improvement," he nodded. She grinned. He quirked one corner of his mouth in response. 

__

I think I'm getting a little attached to that almost-a-smile. 

And he's sitting around in a pile of books on the last day of break. Clearly making with the research. And forgetting to eat. Can't overlook the forgetting to eat. Giles was the only other person I'd ever met who'd get so caught up in research that he'd almost starve himself by accident. 

There could be long weekends and lots of books and mulled tea, sitting on the floor, comfy together . . She set her chin down on her knees, watching as he simultaneously attacked the plate of sausage and turned the dusty, crackling page of the book in his lap. _I could get to liking this. I could get to liking this a lot. _

Which is silly, and stupid - I've known him, what, six, seven weeks? Not even two months. That's way too soon to be feeling more than vague like, and here I'm mentally doing the geek equivalent of picking out china patterns. I'm imagining our shared personal library. 

I don't know what kind of fiction-type books he likes . . if he even likes to read fiction, and it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't because he's just all serious and pragmatic like that, but see, the point is, I don't know. All the little stupid stuff that you're supposed to know if you're a couple, I don't. Which means I should not be getting this attached. 

And are we a couple? I don't think we're quite a couple. We're just friends. 

Who kiss each other. 

I'd hadn't known Tara for all that much longer . . of course, that was helped along by the return of a slightly more psycho Oz . . and then there was the conversation with Buffy where she was saying my name way too much and being all shocked, and I think it was the shock factor, there wasn't any room for being not sure. I mean, just liking her in a *liking* her kind of way was a bigger deal than whether I'd found my soulmate. 

Though I really thought I had. Found my soulmate. It felt so right . . 

. . but if things were so right with Tara, then why am I here? Why are things feeling so right with Severus? 

Buffy thought Angel was her soulmate. Her one and only. 

Maybe there is no one and only. Maybe it's all just that blue-haired and turning a corner in Istanbul thing . . just random connection . . people who you just happen to find when you're lonely moving in and making parts of your life all them-shaped . . 

"And what is so fascinating, may I ask, about my right ear?" Severus inquired drily. Willow jumped, startled back to her present surroundings, and realized she'd been staring. 

"Well, it's a nice ear," she quipped. 

"Really," he said in a very dubious tone. 

"Mm-hmm," she affirmed. "It's very . . dignified, I think. It's an aristocratic sort of ear. So, all this, the books and stuff, I'm guessing this is for Draco's hearing?" she tried to subtly change the topic. _Yeah, subtle. About as subtle as a sledgehammer._

"What else?" he answered, turning back to his book; she thought he might have been blushing, ever so slightly. It was hard to tell, as his hair fell forward when he glanced down, blocking his face - and his ear - from view. 

"What'll happen if he's expelled?" she frowned worriedly. 

"Ordinarily, he'd be sent home," Snape explained, turning another page, frowning, and turning the next several pages. He sighed in evident frustration, and snapped the book closed. It sent up an impressive cloud of dust, and Willow sneezed. "Since that is not a possibility at present, he would be made a ward of - are you alright?" he asked, sounding almost amused. 

"Fine," Willow managed to squeak out between sneezes. "Sorry, allergies." 

"To dust?" he asked.

"To this dust," she clarified, sniffling, when she'd finally regained some control of her respiratory functions. "I never had a problem back home. I think you've got older, more especially virulent dust."

"There are potions for that," Severus informed her, and to her surprise, it wasn't particularly condescending. 

__

Not, "duh, you idiot, don't you know there are potions for that?" Just, "there are potions for that." Huh. 

"Teach me to make them?" she asked. "After the hearing."

"It would be far less trouble to just make the potion myself," he suggested, twisting around and placing the ancient dust-filled tome behind him, and extracting a rolled scroll from another pile. 

"I am not *that* bad at potions," Willow protested. He turned and gave her an incredulous look. "I'm not!" she insisted. "Though, you know, if you want to make it for me, I guess that'd be okay." He looked hurried away again, unrolling the scroll. There was just a tinge of pink to his normally shallow complexion, once again.

"It would save time," he said flatly.

"Okay," she agreed, fighting not to grin. "So, Draco will be made a ward of the what? State?"

"A ward of the Ministry," Severus corrected.

"Ouch," Willow grimaced. 

"Precisely," Severus concurred, turning the scroll in his hands so the top re-rolled itself as he made his way towards the bottom. He paused half way down, and went to retrieve his quill; the minute he released it, the parchment promptly snapped itself together into two neat rolls, words hidden. "Bloody infernal -" he ground out, tossing the quill down.

"Here," Willow reached out and unfurled the scroll, holding it up for him. He nodded brief thanks, and began taking notes. "But, won't that happen anyway over the summer? Who's he a ward of now?" 

"His Head of House," Severus answered, glancing between the scroll and his notes, drawing an arrow on the note-parchment between what he'd just recorded and something he'd written further up the page. 

"You?" Willow said in surprise.

"No, his other Head of House," Severus retorted. 

"Fine, be all snarky, see if I hold any more scrolls for you," Willow snapped back. "But, really, can I help? You're looking for what, legal precedents?" 

"Precedents in the history of the school, actually, and other magical academies," he responded. "And *thank you*, so very much, for your invaluable assistance with the holding of scrolls," he drawled out, voice dripping sarcasm. "I am forever indebted."

"Just so long as you realize that," Willow responded cheerily. He glared at her. She grinned at him over the top of the parchment. "And don't forget that's my ink," she added. 

***

__

"State your name for the record, please." 

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Tom? Not Thomas? This is your legal name?"

"Yes Sir, just Tom." 

"I see, I see . . you're Head Boy, aren't you, Mr. Riddle?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Quite an accomplishment for a 6th Year."

"Thank you, Sir." 

"Now, as I'm sure you know, we're here to discuss this unfortunate business with -" pages rustled "-some sort of monster, you described it as a large spider of some sort?"

"I only saw it very quickly, Sir, but I believe so."

"I see, I see . . and this creature was being kept by a Mr. Rubeus Hagrid, a 5th year Gryffindor?" 

"Yes, Sir."

"You're quite certain of this?" 

"Completely, Sir. He's . . well, he's always hiding some creature or other, to be honest, Sir. It's all been very harmless in the past, and it truly didn't occur to me that he'd try to keep something lethal in the castle. I would have said something sooner if I'd thought -"

"Yes, I see, I see . . of course, no one blames you, Mr. Riddle. Of course you wouldn't want to get your classmate into trouble, quite understandable, no one's questioning your judgement - but for the record, Mr. Riddle, I'll need you to explain why exactly you're certain this creature belonged to Mr. Hagrid. Things you saw, what he said, if you could elaborate on that?"

"He was keeping it in a closet, Sir, as I told Headmaster Dippet - there was a box with straw in it, and a refuse bin with several dead rats in it, shriveled and wrapped in spider-webbing. I found him in the room, talking to the thing in the box, he'd named it -"

"Yes, quite, thank you, Mr. Riddle, I think that will do. Very conclusive, I'd say."

"I'd like to clarify something." A new voice, female. 

"Of course, Hildegarde, what were you -"

"What exactly has become of this creature?"

"It ran off, Ma'am."

"Ran off? Just, what, skittered away? And no one's done anything about this, attempted to find it? That's not very reassuring. I mean, it could attack again, or - well, really, if we don't have the creature itself how to do we know it's responsible? How do we know it *exists*?" 

"Well, the testimony of Mr. Riddle here .. very convincing, I think, Head Boy and all . . "

"Of course, Archibald, of course, I wasn't questioning his account, but he is only a student and he did say he saw it very quickly -"

"How big was it, exactly?" A third voice, male, from the other end of the room. 

"Mr. Riddle?"

"I'd say about the size of a large cat, Sir, Ma'am." 

"A large cat? Like - a lion or a tiger?" Disconcerted murmurs flittered around the room. 

"A spider the size of a lion, Merlin, I do suppose you'd have to feed that more than rats, my God -"

"No, I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to be unclear. The size of a large housecat. Perhaps two feet in length, excluding its legs."

"Oh." Relieved sighs followed this. 

"Oh, well . . yes, I suppose that's a bit more likely, isn't it . . I don't suppose you could keep a lion-sized spider in a closet -"

"We're getting off-track, here, Archibald. Does anyone here know about giant spiders? Could a spider that size kill a 13-year-old girl?"

"That'd depend somewhat on the size of the girl, wouldn't it?"

"Really, Igraine, is it necessary to be vulgar -"

"It's not vulgar, it's just sensible, if you think about it -"

"Well it *did* kill a 13-year-old girl, didn't it, so doesn't that answer the question rather neatly?"

"That's a logical fallacy, Archibald. Circular reasoning." 

"Ginny?" 

__

"Doesn't Uther - Uther, you collect insects, don't you? What do you know about giant spiders?"

"That they're arachnids, for one thing."

"Don't be such a prig, Uther, just answer the damned -"

"Does Mr. Riddle need to be here for this? We're taking him away from his studies."

"I don't mind, Sir." 

"Hey, Gin!"

__

"Are we all clear on Mr. Riddle's testimony? Any more questions for him?"

"Does *he* know anything about giant spiders?"

"Hildegarde, he's a sixth year student, of course he doesn't know -"

"Well, we can let him answer the question, can't we?" 

"Mr. Riddle?"

"No, Sir, this was the first I'd ever seen. I do feel very badly about this, I'm sure Hagrid never meant for it to harm anyone, perhaps he didn't know it was lethal either -"

"Right, quite, I see. Well? Is everyone satisfied?"

"You've clearly made up your mind, so I don't see what our opinions matter."

"Igraine, there's no need -" 

"Ginny!" 

"What?" Ginny yelped, flinching. 

"Snack cart, just telling you the snack cart's here!" Ron retreated, holding both hands up in surrender. 

"I'm treating," Harry added. 

"Oh," Ginny blushed, and gave the irate-looking witch pushing the cart an apologetic look. "I guess I'll have -" she struggled to think of something she wanted, just so as not to offend Harry, feeling disoriented and vaguely queasy. Across the compartment, she saw Hermione staring moodily into a cup of something steaming "- a hot chocolate? Do you have hot chocolate?" 

"Dark, milk, vanilla, or mint?" the witch at the cart asked, sounding distinctly bored. 

"The mint is good," Blaise commented from her seat by the window.

"I guess the mint, then," Ginny complied, though she thought the vanilla sounded better. 

"You should get a sandwich or something," Hermione suggested, sitting her cup down on her knees. "We might miss the feast." 

"I hope we miss the feast," Blaise added quietly. 

"Do you want a sandwich, Ginny?" Harry asked. 

"Sure," Ginny acquiesced, giving her head the tiniest, least noticeable shake she could manage. She felt strange in her own skin, as if everything were new and the wrong shape, and the thought of putting food into her stomach was far from appealing. _But if I say no, I'm not hungry, then Ron will want to know why I'm not eating, and I'll have to say something, have to think, and my head feels stuffed with wool . . _

At least it was nothing too bad this time. 

Right. Nothing too bad. Framing Hagrid and getting him expelled for the murder you committed. But nothing too *bad*.

It was just the things he heard, saw . . that's better . . better than when it's his thoughts . . 

"Ginny?"

"Huh?" she snapped back into her surroundings, blinking. 

"Which did you want?" Harry asked. The witch at the cart was drumming her fingers impatiently.

"The mint," Ginny repeated. 

"We don't make mint sandwiches, love," the witch at the cart said drily. 

__

Sandwiches, that's right, sandwiches because we might miss the feast.

"I guess - the roast beef?" _I really hope that was one of the options._

A foil-wrapped sandwich was handed to Harry, who passed it on to Ginny. It was warm and smelled vaguely spicy, and made her stomach roil. 

"If we don't miss the feast, I'm still not going," Blaise blurted, not looking away from the window. "I'm not sitting at that table with all the empty seats and listening to Dumbledore try to make a fable out of it, I'm just not, I won't."

"Um, okay," said Ron, looking uncomfortable - Blaise had already heard most of what happened on Solstice before they even got on the train, but Ron had filled her in on the details, and she hadn't looked away from the window much since. Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat, but said nothing. _He's not used to anyone thinking Dumbledore is less than perfect. _

Ginny took a tentative sip of her mint hot chocolate; it actually was rather good. She tucked her sandwich discreetly into her robe pocket; the parchment already occupying that pocket rustled as she did so. She'd received the letter just that morning, and everyone in the compartment had an identical missive tucked away somewhere.

__

Miss Virginia Weasley, read the parchment, _your presence is required in the Charms classroom this day January 5, 2004, at 6p.m. promptly or as near thereafter is is permitted by the arrival of the Hogwarts Express, to testify before the Board of Governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, regarding the altercation that occurred between Mr.Harry Potter and Mr. Draco Malfoy at approximately 9a.m. on December 12, 2003. Your testimony will be considered in the Board's decision regarding the possible expulsion of Mr. Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts School. _

A thorough written statement may be submitted in place of your attendance with the permission of your Head of House, and with the understanding that the Board may still opt to require your immediate attandence for questioning and clarification of your statement. Failure to either appear or submit a written statement will result in a loss of fifty House points and a suspension of two weeks.

Your cooperation in this serious matter is greatly appreciated.

Sincerely - 

Twelve names in a variety of scripts that ranged from illegible to almost childishly tidy took up the rest of the page, and below them all it said 'Board of Governors, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".

"Didn't you like your sandwich?" Harry asked, frowning. 

"I'm just saving it for later," Ginny lied, hiding her face in her mug of chocolate. 

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked, and Ginny glanced up at him; it suddenly occurred to her that he was actually paying her a fair amount of attention, perhaps the most attention he'd paid her in four years. _And he wants to know if you liked your sandwich, that he bought for you._

Oh, don't be silly. He treated everybody, not just you. 

But wouldn't it be just like your luck if he were just noticing you now . . 

"I'm fine," she gave him a weak little smile, and he smiled back reassuringly. Her stomach flipped over, and she put the chocolate down on the windowsill, the smell of mint suddenly making her very ill. Ron was watching both of them with keen interest. 

"You could just write something, for the hearing," he suggested. "Hermione's doing that. You don't have to be there if you're embarrassed - I mean, not that you should be embarrassed, he should be embarrassed, but - you don't have to be there if you don't want to." 

__

Oh Merlin - I hadn't even thought of that - he kissed me - I'm going to have to stand up in front of the Board of Governors and tell them how Draco Malfoy grabbed me and kissed me.

And if I say I didn't want him to, then Harry will have been just defending me, and the fight won't be his fault, and it won't matter that he started it, and Draco will be expelled.

And if I say I didn't mind . . 

I didn't mind, did I? I didn't care. I just wanted him to stop trying to pick a fight, because someone was going to get hurt. But I didn't say that, didn't say anything loud enough to be heard. I just stood there and let Harry hit him. 

That was the first time a boy ever kissed me, and I didn't care, and now I have to testify about it before the Board of Governors. 

I just stood there and let Harry hit him. Just stood there and let Draco kiss me. Just stood there and did bloody nothing, because that's what I'm good for, isn't it, just standing there like a stupid lump and being someone else's excuse. 

"It's fine," she said, turning away towards the window and hoping he'd think she was embarrassed and blushing, and not flushed with impotent rage, all of it at herself.

__

There's nothing I can say, absolutely nothing, that won't be a betrayal of someone. He almost killed Harry. If I say I didn't mind . . oh, hell, he'll probably be expelled anyhow. It probably won't even matter what I say. 

But it'll matter to Harry, and I think it might matter to Draco, and . . it'll matter to me. Harry'd probably tell me to just tell the truth, but . . 

. . there's a little more truth to tell than he knows. And no one's asking about that, not even him, and he knows more than anyone.

No one ever asks about that. 

***

TBC . . 


	22. Take It Back

Title: Take It Back

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Draco has his hearing, Ginny has a breakdown. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

__

***

I don't care. I just don't fucking care. They can do what they want. 

Snape steered Draco to the front of the classroom, and the two chairs behind Flitwick's desk. The Board of Governors sat in the first row of seats; nine wizards and three witches, unilaterally ancient, with the exception of a rather twitchy-looking young witch who sat at the far end of the row and was already taking notes. 

__

What the fuck is she taking notes on? How I walked in? 

Snape's hand on his shoulder was pushing rather insistently downward; Draco locked his knees and set his shoulders, glaring at the twitchy Board witch. She couldn't seem to decide if she ought to be meeting his eyes or not, and alternated repeatedly between giving him a prim reproving glare and blushing and looking down at her parchment. Two wizards that sat to the center of the bench were conversing; one was so fat he looked almost perfectly round, with a nearly bald round head topped with just a few tufts of white hair. His cherubic face was not suited to the sober and disapproving expression he was sending Draco's way as his colleague muttered in his ear. His choice of light brown and white robes was unfortunate, and completed the overall impression of a very disturbed creampuff. 

The one whispering was thin and wirey, in black robes that might as well have been student robes for their lack of adornment, and a braided beard the color of new steel, which hung down below the bench and - from what Draco could see when he moved - had to be at least to the man's waist. 

"Sit down," Snape hissed, almost inaudibly. Others were filing in to the seats behind the Board; Professor Rosenberg gave Draco an encouraging little smile, then caught Snape's eye and frowned. _She really is sickeningly adorable when she does that. And she and Snape - the universe is just fucked up. Really, officially fucked up. _

"Be good!" she mouthed at him. 

"I want to stand," Draco whispered back, giving Rosenberg a flat glare. _Why the hell should I bother? _

"You will sit down or I will hex your legs out from under you," Snape growled, expression still outwardly bland. 

__

Fuck you, you miserable useless old bastard. Fuck you and your House and you guilt trip and your cutesy little girlfriend and just fuck all this shit, I don't even know why I'm here. Like it matters what I say. Like they haven't made up their minds already. 

"I will petition the Ministry for permanent custody," Snape said flatly, "and bring you back here to scrub out cauldrons and babysit first-years. I may occasionally loan you out to Hagrid." 

Draco gave his Head of House a look that might have caused a more thin-skinned individual to scream and run; Snape stared back, daring him. 

__

I hate you, you miserable piece of shit. 

He sat, picking disconsolately at a loose thread on his new mass-produced, ill-fitting robe. The thread came loose too easily; he glanced up into the rows of benches, ignoring the Board's mutters and glares, and saw Ron Weasley approaching the board, carrying a thick roll of parchment. Potter was taking a seat next to Rosenberg, followed by Zabini; they left a seat empty between them. 

__

Probably for Weasel. Zabini and Weasel. Yep, the world is officially fucked in the head. 

Draco watched as Ginny Weasley paused halfway down the row of seats, staring down at the spidery-haired Board witch.

__

I don't see Granger . . couldn't hack it, I guess . . that parchment was probably from her. Thinking of Hermione Granger made something unpleasant slide down his spine. 

__

She lost her parents too. Both of them. Because of my father, too. 

But she's a stupid mudblood. A stupid know-it-all uppity mudblood. I don't know why I should give a rat's ass that her stupid muggle parents are dead now. 

Muggles are trash, wastes of space, they don't have souls, it's no loss . . 

. . but it's her loss, and it's not like Granger to back down from anything. She should be here. She should be here ready to spit in my face, damn it, not hiding back in Gryffindor tower. 

My mother wasn't trash, she wasn't something to be used, something to be fetched, she had a soul.

A soul has to go somewhere. Father was always calling her a whore. And a crank. Where do the souls of cranks and whores go? Does it matter if they died for their sons? Does it matter if they died for a bunch of worthless ungrateful bastards who couldn't do what they should have, who couldn't be the ones to die like they should have been, not her, not my mother -

- I don't care what else she was, she was my mother. She didn't belong here. She didn't belong in this stupid fucked-up world and - 

- and maybe they weren't Muggles, they were just her parents. She has a soul, I suppose. She's a witch. Like my mother was. 

Father'd kill me for thinking that. You don't think about your mother, his wife, that way. You can lock her in a closet and push her down the stairs and Imperio her and use Cruciatus on her but you don't think of her in the same thought as some mudblood. 

I don't care. I don't fucking care. 

You hear that Father? Can you hear me, are you dead too? Are you in hell now, Father? 

I hope you're in hell. I hope you're fucking screaming right now, do you hear me? I don't fucking care! I don't care about Voldemort and I don't care about Muggles and mudbloods and I don't care about ruling the fucking world and being better than anybody else because you're not! You're not at the end. You're a corpse like everyone else and they put you in the ground and I want to just crawl right into the ground and die and I DO NOT FUCKING CARE, do you hear me?! 

It wasn't enough. Whatever the hell it was worth, being a pureblood, being a Malfoy, it wasn't enough, it wasn't fucking worth it, and whatever it was about that I never understood, I DON'T CARE!

It wasn't worth my mother. It wasn't even worth a fucking pair of Muggle dentists. It wasn't worth anything and if you're not already in the ground, then by God I'm going to put you there. 

***

She had pale gray hair down to her waist; the hands that lay folded on the bench in front of her were so thin as to be almost skeletal, though she didn't look particularly unhealthy, only as if time had stripped away all excess and left her with only the bare essentials of muscle and bone needed for movement. Her robes hung in elegant folds from sharps peaks of shoulders. There were lines around her eyes - not unpleasant ones, but the sort left by laughter. Ginny couldn't stop staring. 

__

She was . . she was young . . she had black hair, and . . 

Igraine Elspeth Cornwallis, member of the Hogwarts School Board of Governors for the past sixty-three years, saw Ginny staring and frowned. Ginny hastily averted her eyes, stumbling forward down the row of seats. 

"Everything alright?" Blaise turned and asked her. Harry took a seat a little ways down, leaving a place between himself and Blaise, for Ron, who was making his way towards the Board of Governors with a lengthy parchment in hand.

__

Everyone keeps asking me that.

No, I'm not alright. I've seen that woman before, when she was young, years and years and years ago, more years than I've actually been alive. I remember her. 

I remember thinking she was a little bit pretty, and not quite as gullible as the rest, oh yes, it was amusing, watching her eyes flash, knowing she saw just a little bit through me but couldn't tell what exactly she was seeing, and couldn't do anything about it besides . . it was just a little bit delicious . . she was powerless . . 

"Fine," Ginny answered Blaise, slipping into a seat beside her. "It's fine, I just want this over with."

__

Why, though? It's a great show . . these prim and proper bastions of authority and social order and fundraising dinners and properly ironed pleats in school robes . . they don't know what they're doing here, they haven't the faintest idea what to do with things like this. They don't understand. Things like this don't happen in their little world. 

Don't you think it's just a little bit funny, watching them scurry to pick up the pieces, yes, must expel him, must hide him away in a drawer and throw away the key like a vaguely naughty letter that you're too afraid to burn . . 

He's not a thing to be tossed away. It's not his fault. 

It's never anyone's fault, really, is it? Most people don't control their own lives at all, do they? Why should you bother thinking of them like people when they can't act like people . . 

The last thought was just a whisper, a voice Ginny couldn't quite recognize as her own, but not wholly alien either. It made bile rise in the back of her throat at the uncertainty, _would I think that, would I really think that, just me? _

I don't know what I am. I don't know if I exist anymore.

That still puts you a step ahead of him, just for having thought of it, doesn't it? A step ahead of the muggles and the mudbloods and the -

Stop it, stop it, just stop it! That isn't me! 

Isn't it really, though? Who's making you think it, if not you? There's no one else here . . just the things I've seen, just the scars, just the nightmares . . just who you might have been if life hadn't sheltered you and coddled you and made you soft and pathetic and safe.

You're not safe now, are you? Your thoughts aren't even safe. Is it wrong to hate? Is it wrong for you to hate me? To hate yourself? 

Go away! Leave me alone! 

You are alone. Haven't you figured that out? That's the big secret, the one that they tell all the lies to hide. We're equal, we're all worthwhile, we should all be loved and accepted and smothered down to their level but why? We're alone. We're always alone. They can't change that, so why should they matter? 

"This can't take long," Blaise answered, giving Ginny's hand a reassuring squeeze. Ron hurried back up the steps at the side of the classroom, and then had to climb over Ginny's tucked-in knees to get to the seat on Blaise's other side, having delivered Hermione's written statement to the board. They were passing it back and forth now, several of them trying to lean in and read it at once, until someone had the presence of mind to cast a duplicating charm. 

Igraine Cornwallis plucked up a duplicated parchment, and the movement of her hands was ever so slightly constrained, as if her joints pained her. _Old. She's old, and I remember her. _

Not me. Not my memory.

The Board sat behind the first bench in the auditorium-like Charms classroom; Draco sat at Flitwick's usual desk, pulling at loose threads in the sleeve of a rather cheap looking robe. Snape stood at his shoulder. Another desk had been brought in and sat to the right of Draco and Snape at the front of the classroom. A small folded sign had been placed atop the new desk, that said "witness" in stark black script.

Draco's hair was hanging down over his forehead, not smoothed back as usual. His face was hidden, but he looked thinner, and he had always been lean. 

__

I don't want to be the reason he gets expelled. 

Oh, you don't want to be the reason. You don't want power. 

I do - I just - 

- you're just afraid, afraid to be alone, afraid not to be the good little girl - 

- I want power! I want power to hurt you! 

Me? Not me. The other . . the other who was me. 

He betrayed the other. His mother betrayed the other. And still they couldn't catch me - him - no, not me, I'm not him, I'm not - they couldn't catch him, the pathetic slobbering imbeciles. Silly little bitch thinking she could change things -

She died for her son! She died a hero - 

Yes, well, she's still dead, isn't she? That wasn't very bright of her, was it? 

Professor Rosenberg was seated at the other end of the row, next to Harry; he said something to her, and then darted a furtive glance in Ginny's direction. She was too distracted to remember to look away, so when Professor Rosenberg leaned forward to look around the others, Ginny met her eyes. The professor frowned at whatever she saw in the younger girl's face; Ginny thought she ought to be reacting, ought to be looking away or smiling or *something*, but what exactly eluded her. 

Rosenberg gave her one of her decidedly un-professorly, rather childish-looking smiles. It was probably meant to be encouraging. It wasn't. 

__

It was enough to kill you once before! 

No, not me. Not me. The other. There must have been something . . some mistake, something must have happened, I'm sure I would have done better - 

Than to be killed by a year-old baby? 

That wasn't me! 

"This meeting will now come to order!" announced a portly wizard, one of the Board of Governors, rapping his wand sharply on the bench in front of him. His voice, a deep booming baritone, echoed around the room.

"This can't take long," Blaise repeated in a hushed voice. 

***

__

Do you hear me? I'm going to kill you, Father. 

I'm going to kill you. 

"This meeting will now come to order!" The round-faced Board wizard rapped his wand on the bench, a sharp cracking sound like a whip. He turned and looked into the benches above him; Draco followed his gaze. Ginny was staring at some spot in the air above Draco's head, but even from a distance her face looked flushed, strange. 

__

She shouldn't have to be here. It's not her fault .. not her fault I used her to pick a fight with Potter . . used her . .

. . like Father. Like he would have used Mother. 

"Now, for the record, if each member of the Board would state "present" when I read off his or her name -"

Draco slouched down in his seat, deliberately tuning them out. Snape kicked him under the desk. He glared belligerently; Snape glared back, though there was something a touch desperate in the older wizard's expression, something a little bit pleading. 

" - here today to discuss the potential expulsion of Mr. Draco Malfoy -"

"Don't call me that," Draco snapped out, turning his stare on the round-faced wizard.

"Excuse me?" the Board member asked, blinking in surprise. 

"I said, don't call me that," Draco repeated. Snape was kicking him under the desk again, rather hard. He kicked back, digging his heal into his Head of House's shin. Snape sucked in an audible breath but made no further comment.

"Mr. Malfoy, if I were you I wouldn't presume -" the steely-bearded one began, with a voice that reminded Draco of water dripping in dark tunnels underground, soft and resonant and vaguely slimey. 

"I *said* don't call me that!" Draco interrupted. Snape stood. 

"My apologies, Gentleman, Ladies, Mr. Malfoy has been under -"

"You don't call me that either!" Draco stood too. 

" - my *student* has been under a *great deal of stress*," Snape shot Draco a look that suggested he was currently causing the Potions Master a great deal of stress himself. "His recent trauma, and the events leading up to it -"

"Yes, yes, very unfortunate," said the spidery-haired witch, tone utterly lacking emotion. 

"You fucking bitch!" Draco shouted. The nervous witch at the far end of the bench gave an indignant-sounding squeak; several Board members were standing, muttering amongst themselves in obvious outrage. _I don't care. I don't care, I don't care, I DON'T CARE. _"Unfortunate? It's fucking *unfortunate*? It's unfortunate no one's thought to curse you straight to -" 

"Mr. Malfoy -!" the pudgy-faced wizard interrupted, round eyes bulging, looking nearly ready to explode. 

"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!" 

"MR. MALFOY, SIT DOWN!" bellowed the wizard with the long beard, both hands braced palms down on the bench, leaning forward to glower down at Draco. Draco dropped automatically into his seat, years of conditioning making him respond to the authority in that voice. He despised himself in the moment he realized he'd done it. "Now," the older wizard went on, in measured, furious tones, "there is a legal process involved in changing one's name, and as you have *not* undergone the proper procedure, we will continue to address you by your legal name, which is MALFOY, IS THAT CLEAR?"

"I won't answer," said Draco, hating the sullen note in his voice.

"Then we won't ask!" the wizard retorted neatly. 

"Please, Sir, there are circumstances -" Snape tried again, and Draco thought he looked a little pale. _Am I ruining your absolution trip, not letting you save me? Not letting you salve your conscience? Too fucking bad. I don't give a shit. _

"Your student has had his legally required opportunity to speak on his own behalf," grey-beard spoke right over top of Snape, and Draco saw the Potions' Master's spine go rigid with stifled indignation. 

"You cannot -"Snape objected. 

"Yes," the grey-bearded wizard smiled in grim satisfaction, "I can. Now sit down, Professor Snape, or you will be out of order. Professor Rosenberg!" 

"Yes?" Rosenberg squeaked out, standing. 

"We will now hear your testimony." 

***

__

It's not going to matter. What I say isn't going to matter at all. 

"Thank you, Miss Zabini," the round-faced board member said; Blaise stood stiffly from her chair, and stalked back up the steps. Ginny stood to allow her past; the Board members were conferring, heads tucked together, except Igraine, who was watching Blaise climb the stairs, eyes narrowed. 

"That was -" Ron started enthusiastically.

"Don't" Blaise snapped. 

"What?" Ron asked. "You were great."

"This is a joke," Blaise said tightly. 

"You want him to get expelled, don't you?" Ron asked. "You said he was -"

"I want him to get what's coming to him, and it's not this," Blaise explained in hushed fury, whispered forced out between clenched teeth. "This is - this is - how can you *stand* this?"

"He tried to kill Harry," Ron argued. 

"So put him on trial before the Wizengamot," Blaise shot back, voice raising ever so slightly. "Charge him with attempted murder."

"You want him to go to Azkaban?" Ron sounded a little taken aback. 

"No, I don't! I just want - oh, never mind. You're in Gryffindor, you wouldn't understand." 

"What's *that* mean?" Ron protested, sounding affronted. 

"Miss Weasley?" called out the silver-bearded Board member. Ginny froze, staring down at the Boards' expectant faces.

__

It's not going to matter. He's going to be expelled no matter what I say, it's not going to matter, it's nothing, it doesn't matter - 

- I can't do this. I can't. 

"If you could please come down here, Miss Weasley?" 

She stood on wooden legs, forced herself to move one foot forward, then the other. "Now if you would please take a seat - yes, thank you." She watched the word "witness" go by in her peripheral vision, the paper faintly crinkled from the heavy ink. The chair was too high for her, making her feet dangle an uncomfortable inch above the ground. The Board members loomed over her; Snape was a dark blur at the edge of her eye, standing ramrod straight. Draco was just a swatch of pale hair, lounging back in his chair, looking almost relaxed. 

"Now, Miss Weasley, if you could please relate the events of the morning of December 12th, as you remember them, starting when you encountered Mr. Malfoy." Igraine Cornwallis was rubbing her knuckles with one hand, as if they pained her. _It's cold in here. It must make her joints ache. _

"We were walking to class, and Blaise wanted to stop back at her dorm for something -"

"A new parchment?" the round-faced Board member inquired, glancing at his notes from Blaise's testimony.

"I suppose, I don't remember. I was talking to Harry." _I was watching him. Draco. Not Malfoy. _

Don't call me that.

I was watching him, waiting for him to break, holding my breath . . waiting for it, waiting for it to all fall apart and it did . . and I couldn't do anything to stop it. I can never do anything to stop it. 

"Mr. Potter."

"Yes, that's right."

__

So why try to stop it? Why try to stand in the breach, when there's so much to be gained in chaos?

Not now. Please, not now

"And Mr. Malfoy approached you outside the door to the Slytherin dormitories?"

"He walked up to Blaise, he said something insulting." 

"What did he say, exactly?"

"What Blaise just said - something about doing people, it was a joke. He was making fun of her for being with Ron." 

"I see. And how did your brother react to this?" _He turned purple. It's what he's good at, turning purple, having tantrums, wanting to know why the world isn't all perfectly fair. _

Because it's not. Because it's just bloody not, and you don't know the half of it, and it's not a reason . . it's not a reason to want to hurt someone . . to hate someone . . there aren't good enough reasons for things like this, there aren't reasons, so stop trying to make it make sense and put it all back in place because it's never back in place. It doesn't make sense. It's not alright. 

"He told him to take it back," Ginny answered. 

__

You can't take it back. You can't ever take anything back, it's all there, burnt into your brain. 

"Or?" asked the wizard with the long braided beard. 

"What?"

"Take it back or what?"

"Nothing, he just said for him to take it back."

"So Mr. Weasley hadn't threatened Mr. Malfoy."

__

"You know I could hex you into next week."

"But you won't."

Why did you think that? 

He didn't, did he?

But he could have -

- but he didn't. It didn't fit into sixteen years of memories. 

__

Not now, I can't figure this out now, I just have to get through this and then it'll be over and he'll be expelled and I'll just . . 

. . I'll just go insane. 

"Well, not exactly, but -"

"Yes or no, Miss Weasley."

"No, he didn't threaten him."

"And you were where, while this verbal exchange was occurring?"

"I was standing behind Ron and Blaise, next to Harry." 

__

In the corner. In the shadow. Sitting up scratching ink into parchment, watching it fade . . fading, I was fading . . hiding . .

"So you were still talking to Mr. Potter. You weren't concerned?"

"Well, Harry was still talking, but -"

"And you were standing with him, you hadn't involved yourself in your brother's argument."

"No, I hadn't, but -"

"What happened next?"

"Draco was saying stuff to Ron, about standing up for his girl, things like that."

"You're going to have to be a little more specific than "stuff", Miss Weasley."

__

Chicken's blood. Feathers. Crunch of bones. Smell of stale water. Hiding. 

Not now, not now, not now . . 

"I don't remember exactly."

"I see. What then?"

"We were going to leave."

"Why was that?"

__

Why does it matter? It happened, it's over - 

- nothing is ever over. 

I was hiding, it was so cold there in the orphanage, and there was a boy who died last week of the influenza, there was ice on the faucets . . I tried to make myself follow the others out and I couldn't, I wasn't going to die like that - 

Stop, stop, no, not now, please, not now! 

"Because Blaise still needed her parchment, I guess, I don't remember."

"It wasn't because Miss Zabini thought that Mr. Malfoy was trying to provoke your brother into a confrontation? It wasn't because you suspected a trick?"

__

Headmaster was angry about the boy who died, he made us attend prayers twice as long as usual, he was losing control . . he knew he was losing control, I could hear him down the hall, he didn't even count them.

"Where's Riddle? Where is that devil-spawn little bastard!?"

Bad luck. I was bad luck, I was bringing it down on them . . two more boys were sick, everyone was sniffling, everyone was cold . . he wanted me to die. He wanted to kill me. 

"Miss Weasley?" Ginny's head snapped up. Igraine Cornwallis was giving her a puzzled look. Her lips were pressed together, making them thinner, older. 

"I wasn't -" _I don't even remember the question, I can't stay here, my mind won't stay here _" - I wasn't paying attention." 

"You were listening to Mr. Potter."

"No. I mean, yes. I wasn't -"

"So you were, what, taking a nap in the middle of the hallway?" Up in the stands, Professor Rosenberg was glowering, leaning over every now and then to mutter something to Harry. Harry looked down at her, and he didn't bother to look encouraging. He was worried, brow creased. It puckered his scar. She started at it, transfixed. 

__

I could hear him panting .. heavy feet hitting the floor, claws clicking . . Headmaster took the other boys away. He didn't wait. He wanted Jupiter to kill me. Because the other boys got the influenza, because the showers were freezing, because the stupid bloody Muggle imbicile didn't understand illness, didn't understand contageon, it was my fault, because I had the devil in me . . he left me to answer to the devil . . I hadn't had time to hide very well . . 

"Miss Weasley!" the silver-bearded wizard called out sharply. 

"I'm sorry!" Ginny exclaimed automatically, flinching. "I'm sorry, I'm just - I didn't hear the question - "

__

He knew where I was, I think . . I think he was just toying with me, prowling around the room . . he knew his master had given him free reign . . 

I wasn't there, I wasn't there, I wasn't there!

The shelves at the back of the closet were pressing into my back . . 

"What happened next, Miss Weasley?" the Board member pressed, tone impatient. 

__

I don't know, I don't know, I wasn't there, please, I don't remember, I don't remember, I DON'T REMEMBER! 

"Miss Weasley, please answer the question."

"I - I don't -" she faltered. _Draco. He wanted to pick a fight with Ron. He - _

"Mr. Malfoy kissed you, is that correct?" _Yes .. yes, that happened. That happened to me._

"Yes."

__

He kissed me. Lips . . hot, dry, shocking, blood pounding in ears . . it was enough to drive back the memory of Jupiter. 

__

My memory. My life. That happened. He kissed me. 

"Had he ever kissed you before?"

"No." _No one had. _

"Never?" 

__

What? Why are you asking that? Why do I have to *be* here? Nothing I say is going to matter.

"No!"

"So you and Mr. Malfoy are not romantically involved?"

__

Involved. Connected. Joined. Yes, we're involved. He knows. He knows what it's like, not to own your own life . . it wasn't his fault . . 

It's not going to matter what I say. They're going to expel him anyway. He tried to kill Harry. It doesn't matter what he meant, it doesn't matter that it's pointless, it'll just happen anyway. Things just happen, there's no reason. 

"No," she answered softly. _No, we're not romantically involved._

"So he assaulted you, and then -"

"It wasn't *assaulting* me, it was just -" Ginny corrected indignantly. 

__

Assaulted, what would this soft indolent fool know of "assaulted", what would he know of being beaten half to death for being strange - 

No, no, no! NOT NOW! 

"Kindly do not interrupt, Miss Weasley. Mr. Malfoy did not assault you? So you were expecting him to kiss you, even thought you are not romantically involved. Do you often kiss strange boys, Miss Weasley?" 

"No, of course not! I wasn't expecting it, it just wasn't - he didn't *assault* me." _It's not his fault. He just wanted - he just wanted it to stop. He just wanted to end it. _

He wanted to kill Harry. Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry .. I'm so sorry, but you don't understand . . 

"Then you did want him to kiss you, but it was just, what, a pleasant surprise?" Igraine gave the bearded wizard a sour, disapproving look; perhaps she was a bit of a feminist. The silver-bearded face was neutral, but the leer was implicit in his voice. 

"I didn't *want* him to kiss me." _I just want to be left alone. I just want this not to be my fault. _

"So you didn't particularly want to be kissed, but you don't object to being pawed by strange boys in front of your brother, is that it?"

"No! You're making it sound like -"

"Lower your voice, Miss Weasley."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I just want to explain."

"You aren't here to explain, Miss Weasley, you are here to relate the events as they occurred. The Board of Governors will draw its own conclusions, without the help of 4th year students."

"Yes, Sir." _You can't explain. You can't make it right, you're powerless here . . they don't care what you have to say, they don't care about you at all, don't care if you live or die . ._

. . there was no one to hear if I screamed, I knew no one would come back . . no one would dare . . I could hear him inches away from the door, growling, this soft low sound like thunder . . 

"So, as we have clarified that you did not want or expect Mr. Malfoy to kiss you, and that you do not enjoy putting on such public displays with random strangers, then are we clear on the fact that Mr. Malfoy *did*, in fact, *assault* you?" 

__

I can't do this, I can't do this, please, you have to stop, stop this, please - 

- the whole wall shook when he hit the door, I heard the wood start to splinter . . shelves pressed into my back, hot rush of urine down my leg, not enough air, claws coming at the door, can't get enough air, so scared, so scared, so scared oh god I'm going to die he's going to tear me apart he was tearing the door apart please somebody please I don't want to die please - 

"Miss Weasley, you will answer the question!"

"Stop it!" Ginny shouted. Ron was standing, and so was Professor Rosenberg. It didn't seem real, a frail image superimposed over a darker reality. Her body felt foreign, like she wasn't there at all, she was hiding in a closet with her own piss running down her leg and _oh god the door is cracking - splintered wood scratching skin - claws catching - lunge to the side jaws snapping hot breath hot stinking breath screaming can't stop screaming can't move too tight nowhere to go teeth - feel of teeth so close - just missing - something hot rushing up from the soles of my feet and teeth at my throat and I can't see, all white, white hot light, ready to explode - _

Professor Rosenberg was shouting something, the round-faced Board member was arguing with her, and Snape, that was Snape's voice, Draco was standing, Blaise was standing, Blaise was trying to walk out of the room - 

__

- and then it all went up in oblivion, one scream, one white hot rush. 

A creaking noise filled the room. Rosenberg stopped, her eyes fixed on Ginny, going wide. Air filled her lungs in a shrill indrawn hiss. 

__

Something wet hit his face. Hot, and wet, and full of heavier bits. It dribbled into his open, screaming mouth. Blood. Jupiter's blood. Something heavy dropped onto his lip. Heavy and smooth, like - a tooth. Jupiter's tooth. 

Ginny screamed. 

The desk in front of her exploded into sharp shards. Splinters hit her face, her arms, dug into her skin, and she stood frozen, shrieking, too much energy coursing uncontrolled through her. The Board members all stood, jumped back; it was good that they did, because their bench went next. The bench in front of Harry and Ron and Blaise was creaking and shuddering; Rosenberg was throwing herself over it, running towards the front of the room, towards Ginny, and she wanted to tell her _no, get back, stay away from me_ - 

Ron grabbed Blaise and curled his body around her, just as that bench flew apart. Spears of wood the size of small knives thunked into bookshelves at the back of the room. 

Someone was grabbing her shoulders. Snape. She was spun around into Snape's face, he was shouting something at her, the words meaningless noise. 

__

There's blood in my mouth. I'm choking on his blood. 

She broke from his grip and ran. 

***

TBC . . 


	23. Involved

Title: Involved

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Draco's hearing concludes, Ginny further deals with her issues, and meanwhile, back at the Hellmouth . . .

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at 

Okay, shameless self-promotion over. On to the story. 

__

***

Her feet pounded on stone; her heart pounded in her ears, her breathing was a pounding in her chest, thick gulps of air that tasted of blood more than six decades old. She didn't know where she was going, she was just running, running - then it stopped. Her hands grasped something cool, smooth. She blinked at the image in front of her, carved into dull copper. 

__

A snake. 

It doesn't even look real. 

There was a small noise to her right, soft and echoing. The faucet at the next sink dripped; fat drops trickled down the mineral-stained bowl of the sink, disappeared into the rusting drain. 

__

But not this one. This one's never worked. These pipes don't carry water. Another kind .. he thought, another kind of cleansing, he thought it was perfect, poetic - 

Something touched her shoulder like a drop of icy water, shockingly cold.

"Get away, you filthy mudblood!" Ginny shrieked, spinning around. 

Myrtle flinched back, rising up to the ceiling, staring wide-eyed behind her glasses. 

"Myrtle -" Ginny whispered, horrified. She sank downward, curling in on herself, huddling beneath the sink. The faucet to the right kept on dripping, _plink, plink, plink, _like the ticking of a clock. 

"Who's - who's there?" Myrtle asked in a shaky, accusatory voice. "Is that - is that - you better not have hurt her! I'll tell! I'll get you exorcised!"

"It's just -" Ginny started, but the words caught. _It's not just me. It can't be just me. _"I didn't mean to call you that." 

Myrtle floated downward, hands clenched in her robes. The little ghostly rat Ginny had given her for Christmas peaked out from behind her hair, perched on her shoulder. 

"You're sure he's not still here?" Myrtle whispered. 

"He's dead," Ginny said harshly. "He's not here. He's not real at all. He said so himself." She laughed, and it turned to choking and crying. "There was blood - there was blood all over and in my mouth and they were so awful to him - it was so awful, I'd have died, I'd have killed myself and now I can't because it's over and he lived it and he survived it and I don't want to!" Ginny sobbed out. "I can't - I don't know why this is happening now - it was never this bad, I can't do this, I can't deal with his life -"

"What did you remember?" Myrtle asked apprehensively. _That's not like her. She always wants to know. All the gory details. _

I'm scaring her. I'm scaring someone who's dead. 

"There - there was a dog," Ginny hiccoughed, choked down fat gulps of air. "He killed it. It was going to kill him. I don't remember what - what happened next - unless that was the time -" she broke off, breathing going even harsher, more panicked. 

"The time?" Myrtle prompted warily.

"They broke his fingers," Ginny hissed out, almost inaudibly, muttering as if the words themselves were somehow dirty and should be hidden away. "The headmaster there did. At the orphanage. It was - that's what it was, I remembered that before but I didn't know when - they thought he must have had a gun hidden because there was no other way he could have - how he killed the dog - there was blood everywhere and they thought he shot him and they beat him and I think they broke his ribs because I remember I couldn't breathe and I couldn't tell them where I'd put it because there wasn't any pistol, I don't have a pistol, I was telling the truth but he said the only way he could make sure I wasn't dangerous was - they didn't know. The other grown-ups, they didn't - they didn't want to know what he did. He thought I was the devil. He didn't even really think I had a pistol, it was just an excuse, just what gave him the idea - he thought I was the devil and he just needed a reason - any reason -" 

She glanced up at Myrtle. The ghost had pulled the rat down off her shoulder and was cradling it protectively in her hands, stroking in anxiously. The translucent little creature was trying to burrow into her incorporeal sleeve. 

__

I. I was saying . . I. Me. I was talking like it was me. 

"That didn't happen to me!" Ginny shrieked at the visibly terrified ghost, banging her head back against the bottom of the sink and screwing her eyes closed. "Not me! I -" _bang _"- wasn't -" _bang _"-there!" Something cold brushed her cheek, and she opened her eyes to see Myrtle reaching out towards her, trying to put a hand that no longer existed between Ginny's skull and the unforgiving porcelain. 

"I hate them," Ginny confessed in a harsh whisper. "I know - I know it wasn't me but - but I still feel it. I hate them. I hate them all. I can't - I don't want to but I understand it." 

Myrtle pulled back her hand. 

"Did he - did he mean to kill me?" Myrtle asked after a moment in which nothing moved but the drop of water that fell from the tip of the faucet. "It was just an accident, wasn't it? He didn't - he didn't even really murder me. He hadn't even noticed me that much."

"He didn't know you were there until you came out of the stall, and then it looked at you," Ginny answered. "He hadn't really meant to kill anyone just yet. Not that he didn't want to, he was just - he was afraid. After you - you were another moment - a moment when things changed. He killed you and he got away with it." 

__

And it felt so good - she was laying there on the floor, limp, eyes staring, glasses all skewed to the side, and she didn't look real. She looked like a doll, a broken doll, she looked like *nothing*, and it was wonderful, so wonderful, this rush of power like nothing else - this was the truth, this is what they really all are, just so much meat, just rubbish, worthless - 

"That is NOT ME!" Ginny screamed, crashing her head backwards against the sink so hard she saw stars. Myrtle flinched away. 

"I don't want you to die," Myrtle burst out suddenly, sounding as if the words had been as much a surprise to her as they were to Ginny. 

"I should have died," Ginny answered tonelessly. "It would have been better." 

"No it's not better!" Myrtle exclaimed. "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said! You think this is better? You think I wanted to be thirteen and pimply for ever and ever and ever? You think I wanted to be stuck in a stinking toilet forever? Oh, poor Tom, he lived! Poor him!" 

"You don't know anything about it!" Ginny shouted. "You don't understand -"

"I understand I'd give anything for it!" Myrtle shouted back, cutting Ginny off. "What is this now, four? Five? Is this his half-dozenth chance at a real life, yet?" 

"This isn't a real life!" Ginny shot back. "And it isn't *his*, anyway! He's dead! This is just me, with his life in my head!" 

"And I don't want you to die!" Myrtle shrieked at her. "So stop hitting your stupid bloody head on the sink! You're not likely to knock him out of your ear!" 

"I am not trying to kill myself!" Ginny retorted. 

"Good!" Myrtle shouted. 

"Okay then!" Ginny shouted back. 

Both girls paused and stared; Myrtle still looked rather scared, and a bit shocked - mostly at herself, Ginny thought. 

The little rat put a tentative paw out, testing the air just off Myrtle's arm. It took a hesitant step, and having been satisfied that gravity was no longer paying it any attention, it floated awkwardly towards Ginny, paddling its little paws in the air as if it were swimming. It ended up on her knee, a soft cool presence that didn't quite have weight, but was felt none the less. It licked her hand. 

"It's a girl," Myrtle offered hesitantly. "I named her Calliope."

"Why?" Ginny asked, trying to pet the rat. Her fingers passed right thought it, which apparently unnerved Calliope, who retreated a few steps and then washed her translucent whiskers furiously. 

"It was the happiest sounding thing I could think of," Myrtle said with a shrug. "Did you know - did you notice you have splinters all over? You're bleeding." 

"I'm -" Ginny held a hand up for inspection. Myrtle was right; it was peppered with tiny shards of wood, and now that she noticed them, they hurt. " - I'm bleeding. I didn't notice." She felt her own cheek and winced; she didn't want to pry at it too much, but it felt like there was something about the size of a pencil stub sticking out of her skin. "I don't want to go to the hospital wing." _I don't want to explain._

Oh God, I blew up the Charms classroom. In front of the Board of Governors. I'm going to be expelled. 

Just like Draco. 

Maybe we could run away together . . run away and hide . . 

. . oh, don't be stupid. 

"Should I go get someone?" Myrtle asked. 

"There's no one to go get," Ginny answered bitterly, examining her right arm. _There's no one I want to see me right now, no one who could understand. _There was another largish piece of wood stuck just below her shoulder, and she couldn't understand how she hadn't felt it before - it now throbbed and screamed agonized protest every time she moved. 

"What about that boy?" Myrtle suggested.

"What boy?" Ginny frowned, then winced; frowning made the shard in her cheek scrape against something under her skin. 

"You said there was a boy," Myrtle insisted. "After the attack with the snakes, you said there was a boy, who might understand you." 

"He's being expelled," Ginny said harshly. She heard Myrtle gasp.

"The boy is *Draco Malfoy*?" Myrtle exclaimed. 

__

Of course she'd know. What else is there to do, if you're stuck forever in a girls' bathroom, besides listen to gossip? 

"Please don't tell," Ginny begged, but it lacked real feeling beyond sudden exhaustion. _I'm too tired .. too tired to keep on feeling anything . . _

I'm too tired to exist. 

"Of course not!" Myrtle sounded affronted and a bit more like her usual self. "Cross my heart and hope to - well, you know." The ghost turned to float away, towards her usual stall. 

"Where are you going?" Ginny asked, her voice catching a little desperately. _Don't leave me, don't leave me alone here, I'm not really alone here I'm never alone please, please don't leave me alone - _

"I'm going to get Draco Malfoy," Myrtle said. "If he's going to be expelled anyway, then I guess it won't matter if he gets caught in the girls' loo." 

"Myrtle -!" Ginny exclaimed, but the ghost had already vanished into the pipes. 

***

"_WHAT IS GOING ON AT THIS SCHOOL?! THIS IS COMPLETELY -"_

"Shut UP!" Willow snapped at the ranting Board member with the long braided beard. His eyes bugged. She ignored him, spinning rapidly, taking in the devastation. Someone was breathing audibly, rapid panicked hissing; her eyes fell on the young Board witch that had been sitting at the far end of the bench. She was huddled against the far wall now, hand to her throat, tense as a cornered animal. Willow frowned, and approached her. The pace of her breathing quickened; her complexion was turning an alarming pale purple. 

"Let me see," Willow said, crouching. The other woman didn't respond. Gently, Willow reached up, and pulled her unresisting hand away from her neck. The hand dropped into the witch's lap when Willow released it, still curled in the same position. The palm was coated in blood. 

A jagged shard of wood, about the size of a pencil, stuck out from the witch's neck. It had just caught the side of her throat, piercing the skin and emerging again out the other side. It bled freely, but Willow didn't think it had punctured anything vital. _Except perhaps her sanity. _

"Zabini has gone to fetch Poppy," Severus said from behind her. "There appear to be no life-threatening injuries." 

"You're going to be okay," Willow told the shaken witch. She didn't respond, just stared, giving no sign that she'd understood the words at all. Willow sighed, and stood. The only piece of wooden furniture still whole in the room was the desk where Draco and Snape had sat. Draco had abandoned his seat regardless - _smart boy _- and was leaning against the blackboard with his arms crossed. He had been laughing at the hysterical antics of the Board, but behind his outward facade of unconcerned amusement, Willow saw something else - the way his eyes went dead and his laughter stopped when he thought no one was looking, and how he kept glancing toward the door and frowning.

Harry had run off after Ginny; Ron had tried to follow, but had been stopped by Blaise, who seemed more concerned by the multitude of splinters protruding from his back than Ron was himself. It had been several minutes now, and Harry hadn't returned - though she wasn't sure that bringing Ginny back just yet was the wisest course of action. _Probably a good idea to let the Board of Dumbasses calm down a bit. _

"Where's - ah," Willow saw Dumbledore sweep into the room. "How's he always do that?" Then she saw Harry trailing in behind Dumbledore, looking sullen. 

"Years of practice," Severus answered dryly, and turned to stride purposefully across the room to the Headmaster's side. Nearly the entire Board of Governors swarmed Dumbledore at once; the brown-robed, nearly bald little wizard was gesturing quite emphatically, and nearly hit one of his fellows in the nose. Harry picked his way through the crush over to Willow, giving the bleeding witch propped up on the wall behind her only a cursory glance. 

"I didn't catch her," Harry grumbled worriedly, eyes downcast and hands shoved into his pockets. "Then I ran into Dumbledore, and he made me come back." That Harry had wanted to argue with the Headmaster was clear, but Willow doubted he had; if there was one thing she'd picked up in the kids' conversations, it was that if Dumbledore told Harry to go jump off a cliff, he'd probably do it. 

"Misplaced your girlfriend, Potter?" Draco called over to them, mockingly. Willow saw Harry's hands ball into fists under the cloth of his robes. 

"You just shut your -" Harry started to retort, as Draco pushed himself away from the blackboard, grinning maliciously; Willow hastily placed herself between the two boys, shoving Harry back. 

"Don't you two even think it!" Willow exclaimed, exasperated. "Will you listen to yourselves? Don't you think there *might* be more serious issues here?"

"*He* wouldn't care," Harry snapped.

"We can't all be saints like you, scarhead," Draco sneered. 

"Bet you've got some interesting new scars, Malfoy," Harry shot back. "Why don't you push up your sleeves and let the group see, hrmm?" 

__

Oh, crap, Harry, that was *not* the thing to say - Willow braced herself, and sure enough, Draco tried to run right through her to get at Harry. She grunted with the effort of shoving him backwards. Draco didn't appear to even be aware of her, he just stumbled and came right back at her, all his attention focused on Harry, who stood gloating a few steps behind her. 

"I do NOT have the fucking Dark Mark, you fucking little bastard!" Draco was screaming.

"Some help here!" Willow yelped, a little desperately; Draco had several inches on her and a good deal of sheer rage, and she didn't think she was going to be able to hold him off a third time. The muttering voices of the Board, Dumbledore, and Snape suddenly cut off. Draco's voice was the only sound in the room. 

"I didn't ask for this, you little shit! I didn't ask to have this life and I didn't ask to have a fucking Death Eater for a father and I didn't ask for you to go and bring Voldemort back and I didn't fucking ask my mother to die and don't you fucking dare look at me like that, like you're so much fucking better, you fucking pathetic useless worthless little piece of shit! Where the hell were you, where was Saint Potter -" Snape grabbed Draco by the shoulders and shoved him roughly down into his chair. Draco's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth; the chair teetered on two legs for a moment before it righted itself. 

"Control yourself!" Snape hissed furiously at Draco, who just crossed his arms and glared. 

Willow glanced back at Harry, wanting to make sure he wasn't going to say anything unfortunate. Harry was just standing there, eyes wide, looking utterly dumbfounded. 

"I didn't mean to bring Voldemort back," Harry said after a silent moment. Several shocked gasps could be heard from the direction of the door at the name spoken aloud, and much awkward shuffling. "And I'm sorry about your Mum."

"Is it really -" the round-faced Board member began uncertainly, " - is it really necessary to say *that name*?"

"Yes it fucking is!" Draco snapped, at the same time Harry exclaimed, "Fear of a name increases fear of a thing itself!" 

Both boys eyes' snapped back to the other's face in an understanding so instant and unexpected and completely unwelcome that Willow was amazed nothing caught spontaneously on fire between them.

__

Guess we've filled our wild magic quota for the day.

Someone should be looking for Ginny; someone should be giving a shit about the girl who had the breakdown, rather than dealing with all this pointless bureaucratic crap. 

I don't think it'd be a good idea for me to leave now, though. 

"As I attempted to say before," Snape's somber, resonant voice spoke into the brittle silence, "my student has suffered a great deal in the past weeks. His lack of self-control is, and was, only a reflection of his frustration at the dire circumstances in which he found himself, and from which he was unable to extricate himself unaided. He had no one to trust, no one who would have looked at him with other than mistrust and accusation." There was much uncomfortable shifting of feet and inaudible muttering among the Board members; Willow caught Dumbledore's eye over the throng, and had to bite her lip not to smile. _Go Sevvie. Yep, that's my boyfriend, folks. _

Uh, did I just think of Severus as my boyfriend?

Oh hell . . 

"Is there anyone here who cannot understand his rage, his need to find someone to blame?" Severus went on. "Is there anyone here who has not felt the need to mete out vengeance, however inappropriate, against the only available symbol of those who have wronged him?" 

__

Is there anyone here who wasn't trying to do that today? Willow added silently. _Oh yeah, you tell 'em! _

"If my student -" Willow noticed he was very carefully not saying *Malfoy*, and wondered if it was respect for Draco's wishes or just a fervent desire not to set off another outburst at this critical moment "- were to be expelled, his future would be dim indeed. He would have no possibility of employment in the wizarding world; without a Muggle education, his prospects would be slim there was well. His family fortune has been confiscated by the Ministry. I ask you, members of the Board, to consider whether this fate is justice; I ask you to consider whether you can be certain, completely certain, that you will never find yourselves in my students' shoes." 

Utter silence greeted the end of Severus speech; Willow fought down the urge to clap and cheer. _And jump him. Wow, but righteous and somber is SO way hot . . _

"That was very well-said, Severus," Dumbledore commented mildly. 

"Yes, yes, very eloquent, certainly -" the spidery-haired board witch began, casting a nervous and slightly annoyed look in Dumbledore's direction. 

"I suppose we have to consider -"

"There are extenuating -"

"Yes, well, I suppose -"

"Well, then, let's get on with it," the silver-bearded Board wizard announced over the general din of uneasily muttering voices. "I call a vote on the matter of the expulsion of Mr. Draco Malfoy." Willow saw Snape's hand clench on Draco's shoulder, fingers digging in so hard she was surprised he didn't draw blood. _Come on Draco, it's just a name, just let it go, please, please just let it go - _Draco frowned, but remained seated and silent. 

"Seconded," called out a voice from somewhere towards the middle of the crush. Behind her, Willow saw the youngest Board witch scrabbling to her feet, still looking a little disoriented but very determined. The bleeding from her neck had slowed; Willow moved to help her to her feet, slinging the other woman's arm over her shoulder. 

"Just tell me when to raise your hand," Willow suggested. The other witch gave her hand a squeeze that Willow assumed meant assent; nodding was not really a possibility for the other young woman at the present moment. _And I will raise it even if she wants him expelled, however tempting it might be to do otherwise. Really. I will. _

"A vote of 'aye' will be a vote in favor of Mr. Malfoy's expulsion," the silver-bearded wizard intoned formally. "All in favor, say 'aye'." 

Two voices called out, "Aye!" from the middle of the group, sounding defiant; Willow couldn't see who. The witch draped half across her shoulders didn't so much as twitch; Willow glanced sideways at her, just to make sure she hadn't passed out. The other woman was wide awake, and quirked a faintly apologetic eyebrow at her. Willow smile back encouragingly.

"All opposed?" grey-beard called. 

More than a half-dozen voices rang out; the cold and sweaty hand clutched in Willow's own tightened around her fingers. Willow grabbed the witch's wrist and waved her arm in the air. "We've got a 'nay' vote, here!" she announced, trying not to sound too triumphant. 

"Well, that settles that," Dumbledore nodded with finality, sounding rather pleased. "I assume you will be satisfied to leave the meting out of a lesser punishment to Mr. . . Draco's Head of House?" There were murmurs and nods of assent. 

__

Now how in the hell did he know not to call him Malfoy? He wasn't even here! How does he *do* that?!?

"What the devil have you all done now?" exclaimed an exasperated female voice from the doorway; Madam Pomphrey bustled into the room, shoving Board members out of her way without a second thought.

***

Myrtle perched on the sink in the Slytherin boys' bathroom; she thought, a little irritably, that it was much nicer than *her* bathroom. No drippy, mineral-stained sinks here; everything was polished steel and gleaming tile, in silver, green and black. Obviously, it saw a good deal more care than *her* bathroom ever did. _Of course, what do you expect? No one cares about *your* bathroom. No one cares about *you*. _

Calliope was jumping between the sinks; she missed the edge and slipped off, squeaking. She fell down halfway through the floor before she caught on to the fact that she didn't really have to fall if she didn't want to, and floated back up again. 

__

Except Ginny, of course. 

So in 70-odd years, you've made one friend. What an accomplishment. 

The door opened with a soft swish - _no creaking doors, here, either. _Myrtle straightened up, but it was only some scrawny-looking first-year. He jumped and swore when he saw her, and he looked a little red and blotchy around the eyes. 

"You're not the boy I'm looking for!" Myrtle said shortly. "Go away!" 

He nodded hastily and turned to comply, but stopped half-way out the door and turned back around, cringing slightly. "But - but I need to use the loo," he said in a very plaintive little voice. Myrtle frowned. The boy sniffled. 

__

What on earth is he *crying* about? 

Does everybody cry in bathrooms? I thought that was just girls.

Oh! I'm in the *Slytherin's* bathroom! Well, I suppose they probably do have things to cry about, today. 

"Is - is that okay?" the boy pleaded. 

"Be quick about it," Myrtle said imperiously, wondering why on earth he thought he had to ask her permission. _Stupid first-years. _

The boy dashed into a stall; he emerged a scant few moments later, evidently having taken her direction quite seriously. He approached the sink, saw Calliope amusing herself by sticking her nose up through the faucet and out the other side, and thought better of the idea, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

"D-do y-you - I m-mean, d-d-do g-ghosts -" he started to ask, quite nervously.

"What?" Myrtle snapped.

"D-do you have to stay where you die?" he asked, all in a rush.

"Not usually," Myrtle said irritably. _Unless the stupid Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures decides you're "disturbing the peace" and binds you to a stupid bathroom with drippy sinks. _

"A-are you waiting for one of the b-boys who d-died?" asked the splotchy-faced first-year. Myrtle blinked. 

"No," she said, and she'd meant to snap it, because really, this boy was being quite pathetic, but somehow her voice came out a little softer than she'd intended. "I'm waiting for Draco Malfoy."

"Oh!" the boy exclaimed, eyes going even rounder. She could practically see the gears turning in his little first-year brain; clearly the prospect of offending a friend of Draco Malfoy was much, much more frightening than a mere ghost. "D-do you want me to let him kn-know? H-he just got back." 

"That *would* be helpful," she said, in a tone that suggested he really should have thought of it sooner. The boy scampered out the door. "Boys are really very useless," Myrtle commented to Calliope. Calliope was sticking her head into the mirror - _the clean and shiny mirror, not all dingy and stained like in *your* bathroom - _and pulling it back out again, watching her reflection collapse and expand with great fascination. Myrtle sighed.

" - don't know any - stupid bloody -" muttered a voice from just outside. The door whipped open and bounced off the far wall with an echoing clang. "What the hell do you want?" demanded a tall, pale-haired, rather good-looking boy, who very much matched the giggling, blushing descriptions she'd heard of Draco Malfoy. 

***

Draco pushed the door to the third floor girls' bathroom open cautiously, darting a nervous glance down the hallway as he did so. _It'd really be just fucking pathetic if I got out of getting expelled only to get caught in the girls' loo._

The room appeared empty on first glance, and he scrunched up his nose in distaste at its state of disrepair. The tiles were cracked and stained, the mirrors dingy, and he could hear a faucet dripping. Then another tiny sound intruded; just the faint rustling of cloth. He stepped further into the room; it was coming from the direction of the sinks. A few more steps and he saw a wash of deep copper on black, tinged here and there with deep red; Ginny. 

__

She doesn't look like she wants company. I don't know why the hell she'd want *my* company if she did, either. 

Don't know why she'd give my wand back. Tell me not to go home. 

Blow up the bloody fucking charms classroom. 

She has freckles on her lips - her soft, warm little lips. 

I didn't mean to use her - 

He must have made some sound, because she twisted around, raising her head warily. He hissed in a started breath when he saw the jagged piece of wood protruding from the side of her face; there was a slow trickle of blood making its way towards her chin. 

"Did you get expelled?" she asked tonelessly; her voice almost could have been conversational if it hadn't been so completely devoid of feeling. 

"No," he said uneasily, shrugging. "Snape made this big speech about how I've been wronged. It was all a lot of bullshit." She nodded just a little, and put her chin down on her knees. "So, ah - I've never seen someone do something like that," he offered. "Blow up a whole room like that. Impressive." _What the fuck am I supposed to say? What the fuck am I *doing* here? _

"I'm sorry Myrtle bothered you," Ginny responded. "You can leave if you want. I'm okay." 

"Right," Draco retorted without thinking. "All that blood's just decorative. It's the latest fashion." _It's unlikely the curse would have been powerful enough to kill either of them, if she hadn't already been physically depleted. The ritual required the donation of a great deal of blood._

"You don't care," Ginny said with flat finality. Draco didn't know what to say to that.

__

Do I care? What the hell does that mean, anyway, do I care? Do I want to be here? Would I make fancy speeches for her? Embroider pillows. Offer to teach her the Dark Arts. Bleed for her. Die for her. 

I don't know what that means. I don't know if I care. I don't know if I care about anything. 

I don't like seeing her bleeding . . the donation of a great deal of blood .. 

"Go away," Ginny muttered, tucking her face back down into her robes. 

"Make me," Draco shot back, and her head snapped up, eyes blazing. 

"You know I could," she threatened, but there was something frightened behind the threat. 

"But you won't," Draco said with a shrug, throwing her own words back at her, settling down on the floor in front of her. He reached a hand out towards her face. "You've got -" she flinched away, and he drew his hand back. "I'm not gonna do anything, just telling you, you've got half a broomstick sticking out of your face."

"Gee, really, I didn't notice," Ginny answered scathingly. 

"Think you might want to go to the hospital wing?" he suggested, tone mocking. 

"No," she snapped.

"They're going to make you, sooner or later," Draco argued. "You can't have a bloody explosion of wild magic like that without them wanting to check you out."

"Wild magic?" she asked tentatively, glancing up at him.

"What you did at the hearing," Draco said. "Unless you meant to do that?" 

"I didn't mean to do that," Ginny mumbled, flushing. 

"So then you had a little wild magic incident," Draco said. "It happens. Not often to people who're older than about ten, but it happens." Ginny gave him a nasty look. _Why is she looking at me like - oh. People older than ten. Well, hell, I didn't *mean* to insult her!_

I really completely fucking suck at this.

"I'm going to be in so much trouble," she said softly, into her robe. 

"No you're not," Draco contradicted, watching the blood drip off her chin and soak into her robe. _How can she not know this? She's a pureblood. A Weasel, but still, a pureblood. Pure blood. Dirty blood. Blood, so much blood . . _"It's just - like catching a flu." Her expression was blatantly incredulous. "Okay, a really violent flu. But you're not going to be in trouble." She didn't look particularly consoled. 

"So will you go to the hospital wing now?" he pressed.

"No," she responded, as unequivocally as before. 

"You've got to at least get that stake taken out of your face," he insisted. She reached a hand up and tried to yank on it, pulling it at an awkward angle that made her gasp and screw her tear-filled eyes shut. A fresh, bright gush of blood to ran down her cheek; the piece of wood didn't budge.

"Bloody - stop that!" Draco exclaimed, reaching out and grabbing her hand. 

"Don't *touch* me, flithy Muggle-loving traitor!" Ginny shrieked, eyes snapping open, and the sibilance of her voice was odd and not Weasley-like at all. "Don't touch me, don't - I'll kill you, you filthy - don't, stop it -!" She jerked hard away from him, kicking out and catching him in the knee with one boot-encased foot, scrabbling backwards on the tile, eyes gone huge and wild. Draco clambered back away from her, swearing profusely; he caught the side of his head on the sink as he stumbled to his feet. 

There was another large piece of wood in her shoulder; she winced and caught at it, and stopped. Her breath was jagged for a few moments, strange and disjointed, as if she were trying to remember how. Her breathing steadied, and the look she gave him was saner, but very, very frightened. 

"What the hell was that?" Draco demanded, feeling his own pulse drumming a frantic beat in his throat. "What the bloody fucking hell was that?" _Weasel-girl doesn't say Muggle-loving like it's an insult and she's not fucking crazy, I mean, there are rumors because of her first year but - oh, fuck - _

"He's still in your head," Draco said, somewhere between shocked and petrified. _Oh fuck am I so *over* my head here - oh fuck - _

Oh fucking hell is there fucking *anything* my father didn't use and ruin and break and bleed - so much blood, so fucking much blood - he should bleed for this, he should bleed for *everything*. 

"I don't know," Ginny confessed softly. "It's not - it's not like it was. I know what I'm doing. I just - I remember things - and - and I think things - I didn't mean to kick you. Please," her voice dropped. "Please don't tell." She pulled her legs in towards her body, curling back up, closing off again. 

"Alright," Draco agreed, dazed. "I won't. Tell. I won't tell." She looked away from him, as if she couldn't stand the way he was looking at her. 

__

Someone should bleed for this. Not her. Not my mother. Not fucking Pansy. Someone should pay for this. 

Blood was running down her bare arm, where her cheek rested against it; the sleeve of her robe had ridden up when she'd been thrashing away from him. 

"You've still - you've still got that piece of wood in your face," Draco commented. Ginny laughed, muffled against her arm. "Well, yeah, I know that's a sort of stupid thing to be worried about, considering, but - well, it looks like it hurts." 

"It does hurt," Ginny mumbled. 

"Could I -" he reached out, paused, hand an inch from her face. He didn't want to set her - _Voldemort - _off again, but he also didn't really want to touch the blood. He felt sick to his stomach just looking at it, so close. _It'll be warm. Hot. Thick. The donation of a great deal of blood . . blood in her hair, blonde hair like mine, feet making great wet splats on the kitchen floor, help me, help me, please, blood in her blonde hair like my mother's . . like my mother's . . donation of a great deal of blood . ._

Oh fuck it, I am not a fucking coward. I am not going to just stand here and watch her bleed. I can fucking DO something this time and I'm bloody well going to. 

" - could I touch you? To take it out?" he asked. She shifted ever so slightly so that just her eyes peeked out over her arm. Those eyes weighed, judged; it made his skin crawl, thinking it might not be just Ginny looking out at him. _You're going to bleed for this, Father. For once, you're going to be the one to bleed, I fucking promise you that. _

"Okay," Ginny whispered. He braced one hand flat against her face; her skin was cold, her blood hot. She closed her eyes. 

***

__

BANG BANG BANG

Dawn groaned, trying to burrow into her pillow, wriggling further under the covers. "S'not a school day," she muttered, frowning. "G'way." 

"Dawn, open the door!" called her sister's voice. It paused, then the banging resumed. "Unlock the door, Dawn!" 

"G'way, don't wanna -" _BANG_ "-Buffy?" Dawn sat up in bed, coming fully awake, blinking. The banging stopped. 

"Why is your door locked?" Buffy demanded from the other side of it, voice sounding like she was in full-on lecture mode. Dawn grimaced and rubbed her eyes. _Huh? Why is my door locked? What time is it? _She glanced at her bedside clock; it was almost four in the morning. _Why is my door locked?_

"I always lock my door when you go on patrol, since Willow left," Dawn retorted sullenly, as soon as she remembered the fact, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and reluctantly kicking back the warmth of the covers. "And what bug crawled up your butt?" she muttered under her breath. 

"You need to unlock this door," Buffy ordered. _Bite me, _thought Dawn.

"I'm coming!" she said aloud. "Give me a minute to remember how my feet work, sheesh, we're not all nocturnal, you know," she grumbled, reaching for the knob. 

"Remember Dracula?" Buffy blurted from the other side of the door, and her tone was completely different than it had been a moment before. She sounded .. _strange. _

"Huh?" Dawn frowned in exasperation, hand dropping to her side. "Can't we talk in the morning? I have a test tomorrow." _That you're going to yell at me for flunking. _

"Remember Dracula?" Buffy repeated, and she sounded a little frantic. 

"What, is he back again?" Dawn asked. "So stake him or something. Cut off his head. Can I go back to bed now?" 

"Open this door!" Buffy ordered imperiously, voice once again the Bitch-from-Hell big sister tone. Dawn flinched, reached for the knob - and paused. 

Something seemed to slither down her spine. Something in the back of her head was yelling at her not to do that, and she felt herself coming a little bit more awake, trying to figure out just what was freaking her out.

__

She is acting just *weird*. 

Do I actually know that's Buffy out there? It sounds like Buffy. 

"What's my birthday?" Dawn asked warily. 

"It's June 21st and you're 15 and - remember Dracula! - just OPEN THE DOOR!" The last was practically a snarl. Dawn backed up, looking frantically around the room for something that might be used as a weapon.

"You're really freaking me out here!" she shouted back, her voice trembling. 

"You got a - Dracula, come on Dawn, Dracula - dress from Mom, with yellow flowers, last birthday that I was - Dracula! - OPEN THE DOOR!" 

__

Dracula, why Dracula, what the hell is Dracula, he's a vamp, okay, I knew that, but what's so important about Dracula, what - 

"DAWN, UNLOCK THIS DOOR!" 

__

- thrall. Dracula put her in thrall. 

"I don't think I should do that," Dawn said shakily, backing away around the bed. "And you know, if you're really just Buffy, you can ground me and all tomorrow, but I think I'm gonna call Tara now and -" 

Something hit the door, hard, and a huge splintering crack appeared right down its center. Dawn scream, and bolted for the window. 

***

TBC . . 


	24. Almost Speaking

Title: Almost Speaking

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: _"I think this line's mostly filler . . "_ um, okay, really, further exploration of Ginny's mental state as well as Willow and Snape's relationship. Everybody starts to get the first itty bitty hint of a clue. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at 

Okay, shameless self-promotion over. On to the story. 

***

"This has already started to heal," Madam Pomfrey commented, frowning just inches from Ginny's face, her fingers hovering over the jagged wound just above her cheekbone and to the side of her eye. She didn't actually touch it, but Ginny had to fight not to flinch; just the proximity, the possibility of touch seemed to make it throb all the more. 

"You're going to have a scar," the mediwitch pronounced. "There's nothing I can do about this now."

Ginny shrugged, a movement that hurt far less at present than it would have an hour ago. The rest of the splinters had been charmed out and the cuts magically sealed, a tedious process that caused a brief burning sensation and then itched like mad for ten minutes in which she had been instructed to lie still and not even think of trying to scratch at her assorted rapidly-healing wounds. 

Draco had only pulled out the one splinter, the one in her face; it had bled profusely, and he had turned an interesting shade of puce.

"Don't you shrug at me, young lady!" Madam Pomfrey waggled a finger in her face, before bustling off to retrieve Merlin knew what from a cabinet across the room. "Running off like that was utter foolishness," the mediwitch continued to scold as she rummaged through her supplies. "Completely inappropriate behavior from a fourth year, and a Gryffindor no less! Of course losing control of one's magic is upsetting, but it's no reason to let one's senses run off as well." 

She retrieved a small satchel of powder from the back corner of the cabinet, turned, strode back towards Ginny.

"What if you had been seriously injured, did you think of that? What if you'd gotten a splinter in your eye, hrmm? You're lucky all you've got is a scar, you could have been going *blind* while the rest of us searched the grounds for you. Did you think of that?"

__

If I'd had a splinter in my eye, I think I would have noticed it before I ran off. 

No. No, I wouldn't have. 

"No, Ma'am," Ginny said quietly. Madam Pomfrey gave a satisfied-sounding _hmph, _and pressed the small pouch into Ginny's hand. 

"Now, you recall how you felt immediately *before* the incident?" 

__

Door splintering and teeth snapping and hot stinking breath and make it stop, make it stop I don't want to die -

"Miss Weasley!" Madam Pomfrey said sharply.

"I'm sorry!" Ginny yelped, flinching. The mediwitch's frown deepened. 

"You're quite certain you feel well now?" Madam Pomfrey demanded. "No headache? Nausea? A feeling of prickling cold?" 

__

It's always cold, so cold it hurts, so cold you can't remember what it feels like to be warm, it's hard to even move. 

"Where's Riddle? Where is that devil-spawn little bastard?" 

"I just feel normal," Ginny answered. "Maybe a little sick, but I missed dinner. I always feel sick if I don't eat." 

__

You'd have died. 

Madam Pomfrey nodded, still frowning. "Well, I've checked everything I can think of to check, and you do seem perfectly well. If you begin to feel worse, though, you're to come straight back here, do you understand?" 

__

I'd rather have died.

"I will," Ginny agreed automatically. Madam Pomfrey didn't look particularly convinced. 

__

That's the stupidest thing you've ever said! Do you think this is better? Do you think I wanted to be thirteen and pimply for ever and ever? You think I wanted to stuck in a stinking toilet forever? Oh, poor Tom, he lived! Poor him!

"You're to go straight back to your dorm," the mediwitch instructed sternly. "I'll send a house-elf up with something for you to eat. Nothing too rich, not for the next few days. No excitement. No strenuous physical activity. And once you've eaten, I want you to go right to bed. Is that all clear?"

__

Pathetic, worthless little mudblood, laying there on the tile all broken and empty, just a shell, just flesh, powerless - 

- but she's *not*, is she? She's still here, isn't she? Something more than flesh. 

"Yes, Ma'am," Ginny agreed. "I'm tired anyway." 

__

Flesh. Blood. Blood running down the backs of my knees counting, and again, and you'll never do that again, will you, you little bastard, and again, and again, and bones cracking in fingers and teeth snapping and you'll pay you'll all pay I hate you filthy - filthy, don't touch me, you'll - 

I'd have died. I'd have wanted to die.   
But I didn't. I lived. Now it's your turn.

Think you can make a better go of it, do you? We'll see. We'll see, won't we, we'll all see - 

- no one sees. 

"That's to be expected," Madam Pomfrey told her. "Now, this packet of powder - I want you to brew this up if you begin to feel the way you felt before your magic went wild. You do recall how that felt? A tingling sort of sensation, I expect, perhaps?"

"I remember," Ginny nodded. _I could hex you into next week, you know. _

But you won't.

Draco saw. Draco doesn't do well with screaming.

Or blood. Flesh and blood. More than flesh . . Myrtle and Draco and a little rat down in the dungeons, Crookshanks caught it and it must have been a magical sort of rat because, see . . more than flesh . . 

It was the happiest sounding thing I could think of. 

"No more than a teacup of water, and you're to use it all," Madam Pomfrey instructed, tone warning dire consequences if Ginny diluted the potion. "It won't taste very pleasant, but you're to drink it down and then come *straight back here*, understand?" 

__

Can't I just go now? I understand. It's clear. Come back if I feel ill, drink potion if I feel tingly. 

And between times, go out of my mind, but I shouldn't bother about that. That's only really a concern if it makes me blow things up. 

They don't understand, do they? Don't care. Can't see. Why should you care so much, why should you fight - 

Myrtle. Draco.

Me. Myself. This is my bloody life, not yours!

Bloody life .. what would you know about a bloody life . . 

"Miss Weasley, *do you understand*?" Madam Pomfrey pressed. 

"Yes, I understand!" Ginny snapped back, then cringed as the older woman's white eyebrows crept towards her scalp in affronted shock. "I'm sorry, I'm very tired," Ginny apologized. "I didn't mean that how it came out. I'm sorry." The mediwitch's face softened just a fraction, but still looked a little put off. 

"Well, I guess that's understandable," she said with a sigh, and patted Ginny's knee. She backed a little ways away from the cot, then paused. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where you hid all that time? No one could find you."

Ginny didn't answer.

__

I was just in Myrtle's bathroom, but who would think to look there? No one ever goes in there. They've all forgotten. No one sees - 

"I didn't think so," Madam Pomfrey sighed again. "You're quite sure you're not feeling at all dizzy? I could call for one of the prefects to come fetch you, if you'd rather not walk back to your dorm alone."

"I'm fine," Ginny insisted. "Really, I don't feel any different at all."

"Off with you, then," Madam Pomfrey made a shooing motion towards the door. Ginny was almost out into the hallway when the mediwitch called after her, "Your Uncle Ted did the very same thing, you know, when he was in his second year." 

Ginny turned back, surprised. 

__

Uncle Ted? Uncle Ted the drunk? 

"Well, not exactly the same thing, I suppose," Madam Pomfrey amended with a small shrug. "He melted an entire classroom full of cauldrons during his Potions final. It was a terrible mess."

"I - I guess it would be," Ginny said, not knowing what else to say.

"I just thought it might make you feel better, knowing it runs in the family," Madam Pomfrey said. "And he never had another incident like it."

__

Of course. It'll all be okay, don't worry about it, it runs in the family, it's a terrible mess but no reason to take leave of your senses.

Just some random one-off thing. Get plenty of sleep and it'll all be okay. 

How can she be standing there staring at me, and not see anything? How can she possibly not see? 

I am Lord Voldemort!

I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, and every finger in my right hand has at least one broken bone in it. They had to heal all on their own. 

Madam Pomfrey gave Ginny a bland, reassuring smile.

"Thanks," Ginny said flatly, and tried to smile back. In her mind's eye her smile looked like the grinning of a skull, just lips drawn back from teeth. _Just flesh, flesh and blood and bone. _Madam Pomfrey didn't seem to notice. 

***

Willow thought it must be nearing midnight; her clock informed her only that she'd missed dinner yet again. The search for Ginny Weasley had ended less than an hour ago, when the girl had simply presented herself at the hospital wing. Tired, emotionally drained, and frustrated at the ridiculousness of a faculty composed entirely of witches and wizards being unable to find a single missing student, Willow had felt just slightly like strangling her. 

__

Which isn't very nice at all. She was just upset. I'd be upset. 

Willow took a distracted bite of belated dinner - assorted leftovers sandwiched in the middle of a bagel, she hadn't wanted to bother the house elves for something more palatable at this late hour - and tried one more time to focus on the text in front of her. 

She thought she'd read the first page of 'Theories in Applied Transfiguration' at least five separate times now, but she couldn't be completely certain, because she kept forgetting what she'd read. 

__

I need to give up and go to bed. 

No, I need to read this. At least the first chapter. This is stuff I should have learned in 6th year, if I'd had a 6th year. I mean, a 6th year here. I had a 6th year, sort of. Junior year. 

During which I restored a vampire's soul, which is whole freakin' lot more impressive than turning dust into dinner plates, if you ask me!

Not that anyone did. Ask me. I think I'd have rather done the dinner plates, really, but such is life. 

And I need to know at least as much as my students, which means I have to read this. 

Again, since I have no idea what I just read. UGH!

Willow groaned aloud, slapped her rather unappetizing sandwich down onto its plate and braced her elbows on either side of the book, dropping her forehead into her hands. 

"The atomic composition of most solids," she read aloud in a very determined tone, "may be manipulated through the application of -" her door swung open without preamble and bounced off the far wall, interrupting her. 

"Just come right on in," she commented sarcastically. "Don't bother to knock." 

The swirl of black robes and dark hair that stalked into the room through the door answered her with an inelegant snort, before dropping itself length-wise onto her couch. A hand, draping off the edge of the cushion, made a dismissive gesture, and across the room the door closed itself. 

"And make yourself at home," she added, blinking at Severus' prone form. He'd ended up with most of his hair tossed over his face, his nose protruding from a mass of black locks. She bit her lip to keep from giggling. 

He turned, hair falling away from his face, giving her a questioning look. She did her best to look annoyed, scowling at him. He grimaced, and began to push himself up off the couch. 

"I'm teasing!" she exclaimed, breaking into a somewhat exasperated grin. _He is just not getting this "having friends" concept. _"TEA-sing! Look it up!" She abandoned 'Theories in Applied Transfiguration' and grabbed up the plate with bagel sandwich, crossing the room towards him. He made a sour sort of face, clearly conveying exactly what he thought of her teasing, and collapsed back onto the couch. 

Willow stopped a foot away, frowning down at him. After a few moments, he seemed to sense her presence, and blinked one eye open, quirking an eyebrow up at her. 

"Well I was gonna join you," she explained. "But you're talking up the whole couch."

"Sit on the floor," he suggested laconically, snapping his eye shut again. She thought the corner of his lip was twitching ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough for her to know this was revenge of the teasing sort. 

__

Could I get used to that? Little lip-twitches and half-smiles and lots of sarcasm? Would that make me happy? 

Stupid confusing jerk-person. 

She stuck her tongue out at him, half expecting him to see what she was doing right through his eyelids. He didn't budge. 

"That's my couch, Mister," she pointed out tartly.

"It's also your floor," he answered smoothly. 

__

Poop-head. 

"I was studying," she complained. 

"Do continue," he said, waving a hand in a lazily dismissive gesture. 

"And what if I wanted to study on my couch?" she snapped, chewing her lower lip and grinning. 

__

Yeah, I could like this. I think I could. 

"We can't always have what we want," he answered in his best, most condescending lecture voice. Willow crossed her arms and glowered down at him. _Well, fine then. He wants to play? Let's play. _

She stomped back across the room, dropping the plate and bagel sandwich down on the kitchenette table with a ringing sort of clang as the plate spun and then settled. 'Theories in Applied Transfiguration' was tucked under one arm. She stormed back, and plopped down with a little more force than was strictly necessary, directly on his stomach. 

Severus' eyes flew open, and he spent a very satisfying moment sputtering in disbelief. The hand that had been dangling off the couch tried to lift, encountered the back of her knee, and promptly dropped away again. 

She tried to ignore the feeling of stomach muscles tensing under her thighs - _what was I thinking? Was there thinking involved in this? I think there was a real lack of thinking - _and gave him her best superior, triumphant stare. She quirked an eyebrow. He goggled. She turned pointedly away, setting her textbook down on her knees. 

"The atomic comp -" the book was snatched away from her. She turned and glared; he held it out over his head, smirking at her. 

"You are *this* close, Mister," she growled, lunging for the book and blushing furiously at the realization that the movement had pretty much shoved her chest in his face. _Just don't act embarrassed. You do this all the time. You're sophisticated. _He shifted the book to his other hand and grinned in a sneering sort of way; it was most definitely a dare. She grabbed at the book. _You are world-wise, and jaded, and - _she overbalanced.

__

- and you're falling off the stupid couch oh crap! 

She yelped, and clutched at the nearest available surface, trying to catch herself; the nearest available surface happened to be Severus' robes. The both rolled; Willow grunted as her elbow and her tailbone hit the floor simultaneously, the plush carpet doing little to cushion the impact with the stone floor beneath.

There was a startled, rather colorful exclamation from beside her, then a thump to her right, between her and the couch. She rolled her head to the side, and found herself meeting Severus' eyes from inches away, through a curtain of tangled dark hair. 

She giggled. He scowled. She giggled more. 

"Ow," she muttered between giggles. "That hurt." His scowl deepened. "Well don't look at me, it's your fault!" 

"Really," he drawled in a clearly doubtful voice. 

"Uh-huh," she insisted, propping herself up on one elbow. "Completely your fault. And your hair is all in your face."

"So is yours," he retorted.

"No it's not," she snapped back, just because the moment seemed to call for it, tossing her hair hastily out of her eyes. A few reluctant strands clung to her cheeks, and from the very bemused look on Severus' face, she suspected the rest was sticking out everywhere with the static electricity generated by their tumbling. 

"It most certainly is," he said, reaching out and pulling a tendril away from her face, holding it out in front of her eyes for her inspection. "What do you call this?"

"I plead the 5th," Willow said sullenly, watching his face. His expression was not even a little bit guarded now, and it was making her stomach jump. 

"You plead the what?" he said dismissively, twirling the strand of hair between his fingers.

"The 5th Amendment," Willow explained, "it's an American Muggle law, it says that -" and then there were lips on hers. 

__

That's the second time he's done that - cut me off. I think he just kisses me to shut me up, she thought inanely. His lips were as warm as she remembered, moving insistently against hers, and his hand had slid around her cheek to cup the back of her head, drawing her closer. She shifted toward him, movement made awkward by carpet and tangled skirts and robes. 

She found herself pressed against a long, rather hard, warm body. It was quite a lot of body; they were doing no more than they'd done standing up on Solstice night, but it felt like more. Her knees were bumping into his thighs, and she could feel a hot flush going down the back of her neck. 

Willow brought a hand up to his shoulder; his lips parted ever so slightly, hesitant. She parted hers in answer, and then her hand was clenching on his shoulder, unclenching, sliding around to the back of his neck. 

Her heart was hammering in her throat, her whole body feeling caught between tension and bonelessness, as if even her skin didn't know how to feel. _Oh, this is nice .. this is so very nice, but . . so much, this is so much, and I don't even really know him and he's older and he's so jaded and dark and sophisticated and I'm so not and I don't know what he expects and I don't know if I can do this with a male-type person again though, actually, I think I could . . I think I'm liking this rather a lot, but I don't know if he'd like it with me, and what if I don't remember how, and - _

She pulled just a little back, breaking the kiss, sucking in a much needed breath. Severus watched her, waiting, fingers still playing with the hair at the base of her skull. 

__

Say something. Not 'that was nice.' 

"So - so I guess Draco came back?" she squeaked out. Severus blinked at her.

"Yes," he answered flatly, and drew his hand away. 

__

Oh, that was great. Wonderful. Somebody shoot me? He was sitting up, and looked a little annoyed. _Well, why shouldn't he be? He must think I'm absolutely the hugest tease in the entire world. Or just the biggest dork. Or both. That's me, the big teasing dork. _

This is so beyond dumb. So we kissed. It was nice kissing. So stop reverting to freakin' twelve years old and say something!

"I suck at this so much," Willow blurted, pulling herself up so that she was kneeling. Severus had propped himself up against the couch, and he was watching her. "I mean, not in the - you know, not like *sucking* at - I mean, not that I *object* to that if you - which of course you're not even thinking of because we were just kissing and that's all and - god, why do I even bother to open my mouth?" 

__

Why do I *do* that? I'm 21 freakin' years old, I should not squeak and I should not babble!

He grinned, that slightly crooked, wicked-looking grin. 

"Stop enjoying this!" she accused, and slapped the nearest part of him she could find, which happened to be his knee. "It's not funny, I am being seriously pathetic here!" 

"You'd prefer if I weren't amused?" Severus inquired. Her discomfort seemed to have relaxed him; the half-annoyed hesitance of a moment earlier had vanished, and he was his usual, snarky self again. Willow found she was a little annoyed herself, at his apparent ease. 

"Yes!" she snapped. "Well, no." He gave her that questioning, should-be-patented Snape quirked brow. 

"I merely finding it intriguing that a young, mostly sane, rather attractive witch is rolling around on the floor with possibly the ugliest, most hated, least appealing person to have ever walked these halls, and *she* seems to be the one who is nervous." 

Willow blinked, stared, and blinked.

"What?" she exclaimed after a moment, brow furrowing. "You aren't ugly or unappealing or - and I'm not any of that stuff either! I mean, okay, I'm sorta young, but that's a matter of perspective, and your perspective is so not as bad as - mostly sane? What do you mean, *mostly* sane?" 

"You expected unfettered praise?" he asked drily. 

__

He thinks he's ugly.

He thinks I'm . . . rather attractive. 

"Bastard," she snapped, feeling a strange combination of elation and pure terror. _We're in majorly uncharted territory here. _

"Babbling twit," he pronounced, leaning forward, and their lips met again, just briefly, a reassurance. 

"You don't mind?" she asked, pulling back and biting her own lip. "I'm likely to be like this for a while. I mean, not the babbling part, but the nervous part, about stuff like - stuff - and god I sound like I'm ten and that so can not possibly be attractive, I mean, you spend all day around bratty little kids and you don't seem to like them much and I'm not - really I'm not *this* immature - I'm just nervous." 

"I had noticed that, if you recall," he reminded her.

"We weren't *rolling around* on the floor," she pointed out.

"Must you pick at the semantics?" he scowled. 

"Yeah," Willow answered, grasping at the opportunity his words provided and holding her breath. "Yeah, I think I must. This is a big deal, being with somebody - you know, male. I didn't think I was going to do that again. So yeah, I must be weird and immature and babble and pick at the semantics." 

__

And now you can stay or you can go. And I can live with either. I can. 

"Fair enough," Severus nodded, after a moment's consideration. "I suppose if you can put up with -"

"Don't you start insulting yourself again!" 

"I will insult myself if I so choose."

"You . . confidence-lacking person."

"Interfering do-gooder."

"Poophead."

"*Poop*head?"

"Bite me." 

__

Yeah, I could get used to this. 

***

__

I don't know if I can do this.

I can. And if I can't, I will anyhow.

She missed Viktor so badly it was an almost physical pain, and added to that was the guilty feeling that she ought to be missing her parents.

__

I was wrong. It doesn't seem more real. It seems less. Everything's normal, I'm back at school, I'm - 

- I'm sitting up waiting for Ginny to get back from the hospital wing, where she is because she had an episode of wild magic and decimated the Charms classroom. Waiting up because she might not come back, because she hid for almost six hours already. 

And the Marauder's Map didn't show her. 

Unless she was that unmarked dot on the third floor. But - no, that doesn't make sense. It's always showed her name before. Hasn't it? I don't think I ever noticed. 

But I would have noticed if it hadn't. I think I would.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'm not half so smart as I think I am, and she's never shown up properly on the Map, and I just wasn't paying attention. 

But why wouldn't she - 

"Oh, I'm sorry," said a startled sounding voice. Hermione blinked up at Katie Bell, who had paused in the act of reaching for something on the table in front of Hermione's chair. 

"You were sitting so still, I didn't even see you there," Katie said, smiling a little nervously. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" 

"No, I was just thinking," Hermione tried to smile back. She had the feeling her smile was no more genuine than Katie's. 

"I just left my quill," Katie explained, reaching out to grab the object in question, tucking it hastily into a robe pocket.

__

Why is she being so twitchy? She's a prefect too, she's allowed to be about past curfew. Katie was still watching her. 

"I'm waiting for Ginny," Hermione said, feeling as though she ought to explain her own presence in the common room at a quarter to midnight. 

"Oh," Katie said again, then paused. There was an awkward silence. "Is she okay, then? I heard - well, something, I don't remember what I heard," Katie shrugged a little self-consciously, her pale complexion flushing, letting Hermione know that whatever the older girl had heard about Ginny, it wasn't flattering. "I'm surprised Fred and George aren't out here too, and Ron."

"McGonagall made them go to bed," Hermione explained. "Well, she made them go to their dorms, anyway. She thought they'd make Ginny nervous." 

"Oh, well, she's probably right," Katie agreed. "I mean, having all those brothers hovering over you, it'd make anybody nervous, I'd think, though I'm just guessing since I haven't got any. Do you -" Katie stopped abruptly, swallowing visibly, as if she wished she could pull her words back.

"I don't have any brothers or sister, no," Hermione answered. _I thought she knew that. I don't know why, though. It's not as if we've ever talked very much. _

"I'm - I'm so sorry about -" Katie started awkwardly. 

"Thank you," Hermione snapped out. Katie flinched; Hermione couldn't bring herself to care. _If one more person .. just one more person says they're sorry . . I'll scream. I'll blow something up too. Why can't they just leave me alone, I don't know why people apologize when someone dies, that's just the stupidest, most pathetic thing to do - as if the person who lost them won't be having a hard enough time just - just existing, just not screaming, without having to be polite and gracious and accept all of their stupid bloody pointless apologies. _

"G-goodnight then," Katie muttered, and retreated hastily back up the stairs, towards the prefects' dorm. _I may as well have the plague. Or leprosy. I might as well have festering boils and parts falling off for all that anyone can stand to be near me._

They just want to apologize and run. Like it might be catching. 

I want to be left alone. Just not - not like *that*. 

The portrait door swung open, and Ginny stepped inside, still in the robes she'd worn to the hearing. They were tattered and faintly bloodstained, now; Ginny herself looked whole but tense, except for a jagged red slash across her cheekbone, almost at her eye. Hermione pushed herself up out of her chair, threading her way between scattered furniture and across the room. 

"I'm so glad you're alright," she said, pulling the younger girl into a hug and trying to ignore the way Ginny tensed as she did so, the odd look in her eyes. _I can't think about that. I can't. I can't worry about anyone else, I just can't. _Ginny hugged her back awkwardly at first, then a little fiercely, wirey arms tightening around Hermione as if clinging for dear life, in the moment before she let go. 

"I'm fine, really," Ginny said with an little shrug. "Madam Pomfrey says my uncle did the same thing once. Runs in the family. Is Ron -" 

"McGonagall sent them all to bed," Hermione assured her quickly. "They all wanted to stay up and wait for you, but she wouldn't let them."

"Oh," Ginny said, crossing her arms and rubbing her elbows just slightly, as if she were cold. "Are - are you doing alright? With being back at school?" 

"I'm managing," Hermione answered, forcing her lips into a reassuring smile. _Mustn't give her anything else to worry about. Too much stress. That's what McGonagall said, bouts of wild magic are usually brought on by fatigue or stress._

I've been leaning on her too much, the last two weeks. Can't do that anymore. Have to manage on my own. 

And if I can't, then I have to anyway. 

Viktor will be here next weekend. He said next weekend, if I wanted. Just for a day. Oh god I don't think a day is enough . . I can't . . 

.. but I will. I will anyhow. 

"That's good," Ginny said, smiling back in a way that didn't reach her oddly shadowed eyes. _Stress. She's just been under too much stress. Her dad was injured and then me - I've been an enormous burden, I've been like a baby, she's had to hold my hand and remind me to brush my hair and no wonder, no wonder she broke down. Anyone would. _

"You should go get changed," Hermione suggested, trying not to stare at the gash on Ginny's face and wondering why Madam Pomfrey hadn't healed it. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Madam Pomfrey said she'd send food up," Ginny said. 

"Oh, that's good," Hermione agreed, feeling the stilted formality of their conversation like a weight on her shoulders.

__

We're talking past each other, she realized suddenly. _We're both lying and we both know it. _

"Would you like me to wait with you?" Hermione offered, feeling like it was pitifully little to offer in compensation for everything the younger girl had done for her in the past weeks.

"Okay," Ginny agreed. "Okay, that'd be nice." 

***

TBC . . 


	25. Possibility

Title: Possibility

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Various relationships progress, mostly

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at 

Okay, shameless self-promotion over. On to the story.

***

They'd been talking about families; she wasn't sure how the conversation had come around to that, but she'd been telling him how her mother had failed to notice when she'd chopped off a foot of her hair. He'd taken over an entire linen closet for practicing the Dark Arts, and his father hadn't even asked why there were silencing charms on a closet.

Now she had a distinct ache in her neck, and things were a little fuzzy after the linen closet. Her head was resting back against something knobby and hard that felt rather like a shoulder. 

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" Willow grimaced, eyes still closed, not wanting to move and discover more aches. 

"It would seem so," Severus affirmed.

"What time is it?"

"I cannot see your clock from here, but it's been several hours at the least." 

Willow groaned, and peeled herself reluctantly away from his shoulder, rotating her neck and listening to her joints pop. She didn't feel like she'd slept for hours.

"You should have woken me up," she admonished distractedly, taking in the sight of him leaning propped against her couch, looking thoroughly disarrayed. _I think that's definitely worth a few aches. _

"Why?" he asked.

"Because my neck hurts and I probably drooled on you," she argued half-heartedly. "Did you sit there all night?"

"I may have slept a little myself," he shrugged one shoulder, seeming utterly unconcerned. 

"You should sleep more," she scolded.

"You should nag less," he retorted. 

"I don't nag," she protested, flopping back against the couch next to him.

"Of course not," he agreed dryly. His arm slipped around her, his hand finding the place where her neck joined her shoulder and kneeding it gently. "And I am never sarcastic." 

Willow let her head fall forward, murmuring incoherent appreciation. "So do you suppose it's breakfast time yet?"

"I think we're in danger of missing breakfast entirely, if we don't start in that direction soon," Severus answered.

"Eating is so overrated," she commented, as his fingers worked their way up her neck to the base of her skull. _And I'm not freaking. Huh. Go me. I guess falling asleep and drooling on someone does wonders for your confidence. The being embarrassed just gets pointless._

Also there was the talking .. which is starting to come back to me in a less-hazy way now .. and I think there was some good talking last night. 

He knows that my mom tried to burn me at the stake, and that when I decided to go to UC Sunnydale my dad didn't talk to me for a week. That Mom was thrilled when I started dating Tara, like I was making some sort of feminist political statement, but she couldn't remember her name. 

His father raised him after his mother died, when he was three. He can only remember her a little. He can't stand Harry's godfather because of a prank that almost got him killed. He really thought he *was* making a political statement when he first got involved with Voldemort. 

I still don't know what kind of fiction he likes. 

But it's a start. It's a good start. 

And damn, he can do nice things with those fingers.

Why was I all freaked out last night? That could have progressed into .. nicer things, with fingers. Or other parts. Why was I objecting to that thought?

"Overrated as it may be, I think I'm obligated to make an appearance," Severus said, sounding regretful. "Things may be . . interesting, this morning." 

__

The first full day back since Solstice. Yeah, interesting's one word for it. 

"No fair being right," she pouted; his hand drew away from her neck, and she tilted her head back as far as it would go, stretching muscles that felt far more well-rested than they had a few moments ago. "I don't suppose we can go down together looking all wrinkled in yesterday's clothes, either, huh?" 

"Probably not," he agreed dryly. "Though the expression on Filch's face -" Willow giggled.

"Or Dumbledore," she added.

"He'd find it amusing," Severus scoffed. Willow paused, considered.

"Yeah, I think he would, and now I'm disturbed," she agreed a moment later. 

"My most sincere apologies," he stood, and stretched, and Willow fought not to gape openly as she pulled herself far less gracefully to her feet, "for disturbing you." 

__

Disturb me. Please. 

"It was an amused kind of disturbed," Willow shrugged; she looked up as he was looking down and then he leaned down to kiss her, just a quick closed-mouthed peck on the lips. She blushed, and inwardly kicked herself for it. _That'd be why you slowed things down last night; because nice as this is, it's still kinda weirding you out. _

But .. in a good way. 

"We should do that again," she suggested. "The staying up and talking thing. Only maybe we should plan it so we fall asleep actually *on* the couch. Much less achy the next day." 

"I will look forward to it," he agreed, the words overly formal and a little awkward, but he looked pleased. 

"And we could - you know, sometime - eventually - I'd like missing breakfast with you," she added, feeling as though her face was likely to burst into real live flames within the next second or two. _But I would, and there's no reason I shouldn't say it. Yay for being a grown-up, even if you turn six different shades of crimson while you're at it. _

He looked a little confused for a moment, and she wondered if maybe he hadn't understood what she meant - then he swooped down and kissed the tip of her nose. It was so quick and so unexpected that before she had the time to react, he was already gone, vanished in a swirl of dark robes and slamming door. 

__

That man does not know how to close a door quietly. Or open one. Or .. he kissed my nose!

I think he may have gotten the point. 

***

The Slytherin table looked half-empty. 

It wasn't, of course; Ginny knew there were slightly more than a dozen faces missing. Claudette Delacroix and Jenna Page huddled together to one side of a gaggle of nervous and silent first-years, looking distinctly abandoned. Claudette appeared to be talking continuously while she ate, staring down into her plate of ham and eggs; Jenna just sat there, elbow resting on the table, spoon paused above her bowl of porridge, as if she'd fallen asleep with her eyes open. She gave not the slightest hint that she was hearing a word Claudette was saying; Claudette gave no indication that she knew, or cared, that she was being ignored. 

There was no empty seat between them - in fact, there was hardly enough room between their defensively hunched shoulders to slip a parchment - but there might as well have been. 

__

I don't know what I should think about that, Ginny thought, stabbing distractedly at a piece of pancake on her own plate. 

__

Is there a need to think about it? She made your life miserable, and now she's dead, and good riddance. How very convenient. Why think about it more than that?

Because she was a human being and now she's a body in the ground and that . . that deserves thinking about.

Body in the ground, body walking on the ground, is there a difference? Why should you care? A shame not to get to see it, though, after all the times - 

- shut UP! I do not want to see Pansy's dead body! 

Don't you? Don't you want to see her laying there cold and rotting and know that's all she ever was? She tormented you, for no good reason, no good excuse - 

- and what's YOUR good excuse, hrmm? 

We don't need excuses. We're different. Powerful. We're more - 

"Could you pass the blackberry preserves?" Hermione asked in a tight, very proper voice. Ginny nodded and complied, handing over the jar of jam. Hermione jabbed her knife into the jar so hard it hit the bottom and clinked. Ginny glanced sideways at the other girl as she spread globs of blackberries across her toast. 

Hermione was watching the Slytherin table too; Ginny followed her gaze, and her eyes landed on Vincent Crabbe. 

Neither he nor his father had been caught, though his father was still missing and wanted - 'for questioning', according to the Daily Prophet. Emmaline Montague and Octavia Crabbe had been interviewed yesterday, the article taking up the entire front page of this morning's edition. It lay face-down on the Gryffindor table now, folded neatly in front of Hermione's plate. The article had been full of photos. Mrs. Crabbe looked as prim and respectable as if she were being questioned about her rose gardens; Mrs. Montague clutched a portrait of her dead son and wept. 

__

Would you have refused an invitation from the Malfoys? demanded Emmaline, eyes dark-rimmed and wild even in newsprint. _They were well-respected - connections in the Ministry - how was my son to have known? He can't have known! And those Aurors just went in flinging curses - didn't stop to ask questions, didn't stop to find out why anyone was there - _

Of course those who were captured are going to be accusing everyone who was there of being involved, argued Octavia, far more calmly, and the occasional sidelong look she directed at Emmaline was full of something between disgust and pity - as if she wanted to comfort the other woman, but only if that could be done without getting too near her. As if her horrible, visible brokenness might be catching. _And Veritaserum only requires one to tell the truth *as one knows it*, so of course they could be mistaken. My husband thought he was just taking Vincent to a party for the Malfoys' son, Draco - yes, he's turned 16 recently - well of course I won't ask my husband to come home and explain that to the Ministry! After what's happened, how can we trust them? _

There should be an inquiry, Emmaline choked out between sobs, a moment the Daily Prophet's photographer had evidently found worthy of preserving for posterity. _They should turn *them* over to the - _

It's all been a tragic misunderstanding, Octovia had interrupted her. _And a shame it was bungled so badly they didn't even catch You-Know-Who - assuming he *was* there, of course. But if he was, and he'd been caught - well, that would have cleared all this up neatly, wouldn't it? _

I'm so glad my son is back at Hogwarts now, away from all this. It'll be hard for him not knowing where his father is - they're rather close, for Vincent being the age he is, but he's always been a good boy, not rebellious at all - 

Hermione set the jar of blackberry preserve back down on the table with a thump. Across the room, Crabbe must have felt her eyes boring into the top of his skull, and glanced up from his plate. For a moment he looked rather uncomfortable, glancing to his left as if looking for guidance. He found a pair of third-years, heads together in deep conversation. Gregory Goyle was missing, too.

__

And Draco - Ginny's eyes scanned the table, skipped over Blaise sitting with Morag MacDougal, with quite a good bit of empty bench on either side of both of them, skimmed through an assortment of somber-looking sixth and seventh years, paused queasily on a blonde girl she didn't know who was crying silently while eating a plate of pancakes, her movements stiff and mechanical. There was a wide berth around the crying girl too, and at the far edge of it, in the last seat at the end of the table nearest the door, was Draco. 

He was watching her, and he didn't look away when her eyes caught his. Ginny suddenly felt her heart pounding in her throat. 

Draco raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek just to the side of his eye, and frowned questioningly. Ginny brought her own fingers tentatively up to the scab there.

__

Madam Pomfrey couldn't heal it, she thought at him, shrugging and quirking her lips a little in outward response. _It's okay, I don't mind. _

Just flesh, whispered the other voice in her head. 

Draco's frown deepened. 

__

No, it's okay, Ginny thought, her own brow furrowing. _Don't feel badly about it. I don't mind the scar. I'm - I'm glad you were there. _

You see. No one else sees. 

No one EVER sees.

No, that isn't true. Draco. Myrtle. 

More than flesh . . 

But of course Draco couldn't hear her, and just went on frowning, before dropping his eyes and stabbing visciously at a sausage link with his fork. 

"Does it still hurt?" asked Harry. 

"What?" Ginny jumped. "Oh - no, not much. It itches a little." Harry glanced behind him, looking to see what Ginny had been watching; Ron, sitting beside Harry, did the same. 

"She should just come sit over here," Ron commented a moment later. 

__

What? Who should - she followed her brother's line of sight and realized he was talking about Blaise.

"I don't know if that'd be a good idea," Harry commented.

"Why not?" Ron demanded. "Look at them, they're all treating her like she's got the plague or something - that's house loyalty for you, isn't it? I don't know why she got sorted there at all, she's really not bad."

"Not bad?" Ginny said, indignant on Blaise's behalf. "Oh, *that's* a lovely thing to say about your girlfriend." _If he knew about Draco - _

Knew *what* about Draco, exactly? It's not like you're snogging in empty classrooms and planning to run away together. It's nothing like that. 

But it's . . something. Connection.

If he knew about Draco - what if he knew about *Tom*? 

He'd hate me. They all would. 

Of course they would. It's what they do - spit on you, and beat you, and break your bones and make you bleed, they don't need a reason, just an excuse - just any excuse - 

No, Ron wouldn't - he's my *brother*, he'd - 

What? He'd understand? You know he wouldn't. You know better. No one understands, no one cares. 

Draco's upset I'm going to have a scar. Myrtle doesn't want me to die.

Tom had nothing to say to that; Ginny had the skin-crawling feeling of him retreating a little, wandering off to think about it. 

__

There is no Tom! No one to stroll off to some back corner of my brain and consider. Just me. It's all just me. 

It can't be just me - it can't be me thinking these things - 

- alone. 

"You know what I meant," Ron grumbled. 

"Anyway, Morag's sitting with her," Ginny pointed out, popped a piece of pancake into her mouth, and forcing herself to chew and swallow. Ron frowned at this. 

"I need to get to the library," Hermione announced to no one in particular, dropping her mostly uneaten, blackberry-jam-smeared toast back onto her plate. She stood, gathering her books. 

"We haven't even had classes yet!" Ron protested, but Hermione had already rounded up her things and was walking away. She'd grabbed up the Daily Prophet, to Ginny's surprise, and tucked it under one arm. 

"I don't understand her," Ron blurted, a few moments later. Harry gave him a rather incredulous look. "But," Ron brightened, "Now there's plenty of space. Blaise can sit where Hermione was sitting." 

Ginny glanced at the plate of rather unappetizing-looking toast Hermione had left at her place, and then at her brother. 

"Morag too?" Ginny asked.

"What?" Ron frowned again.

"If *Blaise* comes to sit here, then *Morag* will have no one to sit with, because she's friends with Blaise and everyone's treating *her* like she's got leprosy too, because of *that*," Ginny explained tersely. "So are we going to invite *Morag* to come sit here too?" _And are we going to invite them to come sleep on the common room floor when everyone in Slytherin hates them for it, too? _

Honestly, Ron, you could *think* just once in a while - 

Ron cast another uneasy look in the direction of the Slytherin table. Blaise saw him looking and waved, smiling slightly. Ron flushed, and waved back very quickly, before turning back to Ginny. 

"We can't invite half of Slytherin over here, Gin," Harry argued. "And Ron's not seeing Morag, so -"

"So she can just go rot, hrmm?" Ginny crossed her arms and glared. _Nice to know what we all think Slytherin girls are good for. _

"Hey, I said it was a bad idea to start with!" Harry protested. 

"Harry, don't upset her!" Ron elbowed Harry in the arm, "she's not supposed to get upset." 

Ginny glowered. 

"What?" said Ron, looking puzzled. 

Ginny grabbed her plate and her glass of pumpkin juice and stood. 

"Where's she going?" she heard Ron ask Harry, as she stormed away.

__

Oh, yes, let's not upset me, mustn't upset poor fragile little Ginny. She might blow something up. She might get possessed and kill a bunch of chickens and set a basilisk on the school. Mustn't *upset* crazy Ginny Weasley. 

You see what they're like - 

Oh will you SHUT the bloody hell UP! Go AWAY! 

"Hello," Ginny said, plopping down next to Blaise in the empty space to her right. 

"Hello," Blaise responded, eyes going wide. Morag choked and sputtered on her pumpkin juice. 

***

"Minerva," Severus observed dryly, without turning his gaze away from the Slytherin table, "I believe one of your students is doing something very *Gryffindor*." 

" - graded before the - what?" Minerva interrupted her conversation with Electra Vector, leaning around both Dumbledore and Hagrid, who from what Snape could hear, were discussing the possibility of sixth years being allowed to keep infant kneazles in their dorms as part of an extended Care of Magical Creatures assignment. _That man will be the end of this school. One of these days he's going to accidentally breed a creature that thrives on a diet of stone, mortar, and students, and that will be that. _

"Ooh, what?" Willow asked from his other side, at nearly the same moment, though with considerably more enthusiasm. Pomona Sprout was still nattering away to Willow's right, apparently unaware that she'd lost her audience. Absorbed as he had been in the discussion of neonatal kneazles and their suitability for dorm living - _and failing to understand why she doesn't just ignore that infernal woman - _he hadn't really been listening to Sprout. The drivel she was spouting loudly and unconcernedly into the silence that had followed his pronouncement seemed to be about the under-appreciated medicinal properties of ordinary muggle celery. 

Severus lifted his teacup and gestured in the direction of the Slytherin table and Ginny Weasley, who looked to be introducing herself to a thoroughly flabbergasted Morag MacDougal. Morag was recovering from the shock well enough - if she hadn't been a Slytherin, he'd have said she handled the situation with graceful aplomb. He sipped his tea as Blaise Zabini nodded at something on the Weasley girl's plate, and glanced over at the Gryffindor table. _Oh, do you Gryffindors get better food, too? _

"I am going to strangle that girl," Minerva ground out between audibly clenched teeth. 

" - useful, if added to an infusion of - " Pomona Sprout rambled on. 

"She's just sitting with Blaise," Willow commented. "They're friendly in class. Which is good since Blaise is dating Ron - actually, it's kinda funny 'cause he gets this totally panicked look on his face whenever they talk - but its, you know, good that they get along. Better than if they were all jealous of each other and stuff like friends and girlfriends can be - or, you know, siblings. If they're like friends, who can be kinda like siblings. But they're not. Jealous. Which is good."

"Being *friendly* in class is one thing," Severus countered, giving her a sidelong look at the obvious subtext to her perspective on the situation. _And has she had friends who were like siblings, and jealous? Or perhaps she's been such. _The thought didn't sit well with him, which only made him annoyed with himself. _She's missed the point completely. _

Or perhaps you're missing the point completely. She's accustomed to a very different life than this; to having friends who are jealous of her, to thinking more of how a situation affects people than politics. Best not to forget that.

Logic would suggest she shouldn't last so much as half a second in the midst of a conflict. Logic would suggest if you feel the slightest fondness for her, you should stay far, far away from her. 

But then, she has. Survived a great deal. Far better than you have, truth be told. She left a life behind before it ate her alive, and her friends as well. She left of her own will, and it didn't take her years to realize she'd been wrong, either. She didn't *fail*. 

"Sitting at another House's table is quite another," he snapped out. "It isn't done." _Stop making her out to be some bloody saint. The woman has flaws, you know. She babbles incessantly. _

"It isn't done?" Willow scowled up at him rather incredulously.

__

She has no appreciation of proprieties whatsoever. 

And it would be a distinct impropriety to wipe that ridiculous expression from her face by kissing her senseless. And Merlin but that *is* literal with her. 

Which is a distinct flaw. It's *silly*. Childish. You cannot abide - oh, who in the hell do you think you're fooling? 

You're besotted, you pathetic cradle-robbing old git. With flaws and sainthood both. 

And she'd like to - miss breakfast with you. It's been a good long while since you've missed breakfast with anyone.

Bloody hell, I am not going to start thinking in her insipid little euphemisms! 

She seemed to have noticed him watching her, mere milliseconds longer than was strictly necessary. Her scowl faded into a look of nervous puzzlement, which after a moment in which he could practically see the gears turning behind her uncertain eyes, metamorphosed into a tentatively pleased little smile. Just a faint, ever so slightly mischievous quirking of thin, pale lips. _Warm, faintly tremulous, eager lips. _

No one else in the world would have had the faintest idea what I was thinking. 

I caught you, that's what that look says. You've been spotted. No use hiding. 

"It's especially not done *now*," Minerva amended in clear vexation, jarring his thoughts back to the situation at hand, and standing. "And not done by Miss Weasley, who is supposed to be avoiding excitement. Well, I supposed I'd better - oh, dear. Too late, it seems." 

Severus forced his gaze away from Willow's lips, and saw that while he'd been lost in their contemplation, Morag MacDougal had apparently finished her breakfast, leaving Zabini and Weasley alone together. MacDougal had the rare and admirably *Slytherin* ability to befriend nearly everyone while offending no one - the Slytherin masses would snub her while she sat with Zabini at breakfast, and an hour later in class, they would forget she'd ever made such a social faux pas and she would blithely fail to recall that they'd ever ostracized her and her unacceptable company. It was something Severus had noted in a few students over the years - it fascinated him, being so utterly alien to his own character. 

Zabini, unfortunate girl, had far more in common with him than with Morag MacDougal. She was generally quiet, studious, sophisticated beyond her years behind the facade of air-headedness she sometimes put forth - and seemed able to offend by existing. _Of course, dating Ronald Weasley likely has something to do with that lately. I will never understand what even naive teenaged girls can possibly see in brainless, gangly, disproportional and entirely hormone-driven teenaged boys. _

Thinks the man who was just contemplating the inappropriate snogging of a woman fifteen years his junior. Perhaps you should be giving thanks for the female gender's apparent collective lack of judgement, hrmm? 

No Slytherin would bother Zabini and Weasley while MacDougal was sitting with them - that might result in Morag actually being involved in something unpleasant, which would upset the natural order of their small universe, and that was the last thing any of these children wanted to do right now. With Morag gone, though - they were free to attack the disruption that was Ginny Weasley. And Claudette Delacroix had abandoned her breakfast and was stalking very determinedly toward them, tugging Jenna Page along by the sleeve. 

Severus glanced after Minerva, who was hastily making her way around the end of the staff table; from the almost painful-looking set of her shoulders and the way she was intermittently shaking her head, he suspected she was muttering to herself. He was wondering if he ought to join her as he glanced back to the Slytherin table; _present a united front to the students? Or perhaps it would be better to . . not present a unite front to the students. _

There's no particular need to be disdainful of Gryffindor now. He swallowed against the still-bitter taste of his failure.

Except, of course, on the unfortunately numerous occasions when they've very much earned it, he thought bitterly, knew himself to be childish in reassigning his disgust with his own ineptitude to an easier target, and couldn't bring himself to care. _I'm sure it only evens the score for the many millions of times they've not been blamed when they richly deserved it. There's no particular need to upset the way things have always been. Not now. Not when so much is already smoking ruin. _

Let Gryffindors be Gryffindors, then - Minerva can deal with Miss Weasley's impetuousness. Let them see that I do not deign to become involved.

"It shouldn't be such a big deal," Willow announced, with audible conviction. "I mean, I understand why it is - or, well, sort of, I think probably not like you do, but - I mostly get it. But it shouldn't be." He glanced in her direction, vaguely incredulous. "Just saying," she added with a shrug. 

__

She still believes in saying things just for the saying of them. For the principle of it. Principle, but not propriety. A brilliant mind that expresses itself in fragmented syllables and words that do not actually exist. 

She should not exist. That's the crux of it, isn't it? Everything that's ever been burnt into your brain through past experience tells you this woman is an impossibility. One does not live on a Hellmouth, practice black magic, fight demons, turn to cranking just to escape it all - and retain a belief in principle. That simply does not happen. 

But didn't you? Retain a belief in principle.

In atonement. 

Can you deserve this? Is that possible? 

"Oh, that's bad," Willow blurted. For a stomach-lurching, sinking moment in which his brain had not quite caught up to itself, he thought she was somehow responding to his thoughts. Then he realized her attention was on the Slytherin table - _where yours should be, you pillock. Figure out your pitiful, mangled excuse for a life later. Show yourself capable of some small modicum of responsibility, and pay attention to your highly traumatized pupils. _

Draco Malfoy - _not Malfoy; but if not Malfoy, then what? Black. Narcissa Black. Draco Black. Draco, the dragon. The black dragon; now that is strangely fitting of late - _had stood, and was making his way towards Ginny Weasley as well; rather more quickly than Minerva, he noticed nervously. 

__

Yes, I think that's bad. 

***

A hand slapped down on the table in front of Ginny, making her flinch and jump. 

"You have some nerve," Claudette hissed, leaning in close to Ginny's face. Ginny stared back into the other girl's doll-like eyes, imagining them blank and empty as glass. For a fraction of a second Claudette's gaze wavered, some long-buried instinct recognizing danger; Ginny saw the fear in her face and flinched further, trying to shy away from her own thoughts. _No! I do not imagine people dead just because they've insulted me! _

But you could - you could kill her with a whisper. She wouldn't even have the time to be surprised. 

But I won't. I won't. 

Claudette saw her wince, and looked grimly satisfied, her trepidation gone as if it had never existed. The Slytherin girl's hand shot forward along the table, hidden from view of the staff table by a large plate of toast, knocking Ginny's glass of pumpkin juice forward. The glass rolled, spraying pale orange liquid everywhere. Ginny jumped back with a startled yelp, nearly tripping herself on the bench before Blaise kicked it backward out of the way. The front of Ginny's robe was still soaked, and the ends of her sleeves; only the edge of Blaise's right sleeve was wet.

"Oops," said Claudette, in a flat, hard voice. Jenna stood behind her, just gaping.

"Aren't you going to giggle or something?" Ginny quipped angrily, glaring at Jenna and snapping her robe sleeves out in their direction, sending droplets of pumpkin juice spraying towards them. Jenna blinked at her as if she'd forgotten what laughter was, then glanced at an apparently random spot to the right of Ginny's head. 

"That wasn't nice," commented a sneering male voice. Ginny sucked in a rather panicked breath. _Draco. Oh no, don't - _

"Hello, Zabini," Draco said conversationally, insinuating himself between Blaise and Ginny. He picked up Blaise's glass of juice. "Were you done with this?" 

"Don't!" Ginny snapped out. Draco turned to her, his look appraising and guarded and yet somehow still vulnerable. He put the glass back down, and Blaise snatched it quickly away. Claudette was watching, too-round eyes narrowing unpleasantly. _Oh no, why did you have to do this - why does everyone see the stupid, pointless things and not the things that matter? Why are people so - so bloody - so - _

- weak? Pitiful? Worthless? They're just meat, just walking corpses. 

Why are they so stupid and blind! 

Jenna was still staring, eyes shifting slowly, and Ginny suddenly wondered if she really *wasn't* comprehending what was going on in front of her; if she'd actually, really snapped, sometime over the dreadfully mislabelled 'holiday'.

"If you don't want me to," Draco acquiesced with a shrug. 

"I - I don't - " _I don't know. _

"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" Blaise demanded scathingly. Facing Ginny, his back to Blaise, Draco flushed a dark red. Ginny's hand seemed to reach out of its own accord, restraining or soothing, she didn't know, and couldn't quite touch him. _My brothers are watching this. Fred and George are watching this. Ron. _

And why should you care? Why should you? 

"It's not Malfoy," Ginny corrected Blaise quietly, watching something indescribable flicker across Draco's face. Her hand dropped back to her side. _Connection. Sight. More than flesh .. _

"What?" Blaise asked, clearly confused, leaning around Draco to give Ginny a very worried look. "Do you feel alright? You should sit down, you're not supposed to be getting upset." 

"Come on," Claudette tugged on her friend's arm, pulling her away, and Jenna turned and heeled just like a well-trained dog.

"Miss Weasley," came McGonagall's prim and exasperate voice from Ginny's other side, "what, exactly, was unclear about the instruction you were given by Madam Pomfrey?" 

Ginny winced, and flushed. _I don't need to avoid excitement! I need . . I need . . I don't know what I need._

"And the rest of you - get along to class! This is not a spectacle put on for your amusement!" 

Blaise gave Ginny an apologetic glance before gathering up her books and hurrying off; Draco hovered a moment longer. Ginny had the oddest feeling he was waiting for her permission to leave. Not knowing what else to do, she reached out again, fingers just brushing his hand. 

His fingers slid into hers for just a moment, squeezing briefly, shockingly warm before slipping away. If McGonagall had seen it, she didn't comment. 

***

TBC . . 


	26. Places of Safety

Title: Places of Safety

Author: Sonya

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse. 

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Hiding from yourself is . . well, just about as hard as it sounds if taken literally. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right? 

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at 

Okay, shameless self-promotion over. On to the story.

***

The library was cool and quiet as always; unchanged. Hermione wanted rather desperately to preserve its aura of immutability, the feeling of it being another world apart from the events outside. She was hiding back in the Medicine and Healing section now, sitting crosslegged on the floor for lack of a table. There were tables available, but they weren't back among the stacks; they were out in the main lobby of the library, in full view of Madam Pince, who hadn't seen her yet. 

She'd waited almost a full five minutes, until the librarian had turned away from the door, before darting in silently past the front desk. Darting - physical coordination of any kind, really - was not her forte, and she thought Madam Pince might have seen her anyway, as she disappeared into rows and rows of dusty tomes. The librarian hadn't followed, though, and that was the important thing. Hadn't seen Hermione collapse back against the Herbology section, eyes clenched shut and heart hammering as if she'd just eluded rogue dementors - rather than one more apology. 

She'd been embarrassed and vaguely appalled at her own irrational behavior, but she'd still tried to make her way quietly over the medical texts.

__

Can't let her see me. Can't let her know I'm here. 

I need . . I NEED this place to be the same. Unchanged. 

I don't act like this. I don't do things without knowing why. 

No, I do know why. I just know that the 'why' is irrational and childish and petty. 

And shallow and selfish. You're trying to escape what happened. They were tortured to death and you don't even want to suffer through having to think about it all the time. Oh, yes, poor you, having everyone apologize to you. It's not *you* who died, now is it? It's not you who were tied down and tortured. But by all means, feel sorry for yourself. Such a dreadful burden to carry, having everyone apologize. 

I can't do this. I can't.

And that little bastard was just sitting there eating his breakfast, like nothing was wrong in the world, and he was there, I know he was there, *everyone* knows he was there and no one's doing a single bloody goddamned thing about it -

- stop it, don't think about it, not here, you're here to study, find something else to think about - 

Hermione scanned the shelf a little desperately, looking for a promising title. Not 'First Aide for Potions Students.' Not 'Magical Fatigue Syndrome: Treatment and Prevention'. Not '101 Medicinal Herbs and Their Uses'. She snatched 'Charms for the Common Cold' off the shelf.

__

That's bound to have something useful, a cold is certainly a Mundane Malady. I should have found someone who'd taken Spells for Mundane Injuries and Maladies last year and gotten a syllabus, I don't know what order we'll be going in, and I've only got a half-hour or so until class so if I don't go at this in some kind of logical order, I'm going to get nothing done.

I should look for something more general, and hold this one aside for now. I need an overview - though something in a little more depth than the textbook - hrmm, maybe - she reached for 'A Witch's Guide to First Aide for Children', grimacing at the title. 

__

Why is it a *witch's* guide, hrmm? Why not a wizard's? Oh, I suppose because it's bound to be the witch who's home with the little ones when they fall off their practice brooms, while the wizard's out doing great things in the world. What utter rubbish.

But it still might have some useful - 

The word 'Lacerations' seemed to jump off the index page at her. She slammed the book shut, snapping her eyes closed just for good measure.

__

Breathe. Breathe. It's just a word. You're being a melodramatic, self-pitying -

- there's not enough air in here, oh God, it's hot, it's too hot in here and I can't breath and I'm going to throw up - 

- discoloration of the skin around the lacerations to the extremities indicates injury close to time of -

- I can't do this I can't do this I can't do this -

I can. I will. I can't but I will anyhow. 

"Miss Granger?" 

Hermione blinked up at Madam Pince, and mentally called herself every foul name she could remember for closing the book so loudly. 

"Are you feeling quite well, Miss Granger?" the librarian asked, glaring down at Hermione over her spectacles. 

"Oh, yes, I'm alright," Hermione assured her, gathering her things in a panicked rush. _Don't be an idiot. You've a good twenty-five minutes left that you could be studying, there's no earthly reason to run out of here. None. You're being positively pathetic._

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here before she says it and she wrecks this place - 

- oh god this place is already wrecked why did I have to grab that stupid bloody book there wasn't suppose to be anything to remind me here, it's the library, it's ages on ages of wisdom all gathered together and neatly stacked and alphabetized, all put in rational order, all reason and logic and not screaming and glass shattering and - 

- stop it, just stop it! You need to study, not have a panic attack! This is ridiculous! 

I can take 'Charms for the Common Cold' with me. 

No, I can't, I'd have to check it out and I can't stay here that long - I can't stay, have to get away before she says - 

"Then I'd suggest you take your books over to one of the tables before someone trips over you, and try to be quiet about it, too," Madam Pince suggested primly, and Hermione felt a momentary flood of relief. _She's not going to say anything. She's acting just like everything's normal, I'm just making too much noise in the library, that's all. _

"Of course," Hermione agreed, nearly smiling up at the scowling librarian. "I was just trying to make a selection, and - I guess I got caught up." She added 'Charms for the Common Cold' to her stack of textbooks. _Of course I can stay and study. It's alright. She's not going to say anything, she's not going to spoil it, I was just being foolish. It's Madam Pince; she wouldn't know high emotion if it bit her, thank Merlin. _

A boney hand settled on her shoulder as she moved past the librarian in the narrow aisle between bookshelves. 

"Miss Granger, I heard -" Madam Pince began in an awkward, stilted sort of way, as Hermione's stomach plummeted. " - I mean, I was so sorry to hear - I'm dreadful at expressing these things, but I just wanted to say something -"

"Don't!" Hermione snapped, much to her horror. _Oh, I did NOT just snap at Madam Pince! _"I mean - you don't have to -"

"Watch your tone, Miss Granger!" Madam Pince retorted sharply, all trace of sympathy gone in an instant from her sharply boned and glowering face. There were spots of bright, embarrassed color on her sunken cheeks, looking like someone had spilled cranberry juice on old parchment. _She never says anything nice and now the one time she tried you snapped at her, and she's embarrassed about it. Oh, good show, Hermione. _

"Perhaps you think that you've earned special treatment, due to your circumstances?" Madam Pince lashed out, when Hermione didn't respond immediately to her admonishment. "Permission to scatter books all over the floor, and make as much noise as you'd like, and shout at professors?"

__

You're not a professor, you wretched old hag! Hermione thought furiously. Any thought of pity for the emotionally stilted librarian vanished. 

"I'm sorry," Hermione said stiffly, feeling the hot flush of anger running down from her cheeks, down the back of her neck and along her spine, making her stomach clench and her toes curl in her shoes. It was oddly like being unexpectedly kissed, this overwhelming rush of feeling, only sharper, and dreadful. _Something's wrong with me, I've no reason to be this angry. _"I have to go now." 

***

"If one more person says they can't *upset* me, I'm going to have to get *very* upset!" Ginny announced, flinging her books carelessly down on the tiles of Myrtle's bathroom. "And I'm soaked in pumpkin juice, and McGonagall says I'm not to go to classes today and she'll *see* about tomorrow, and Ron wanted to know why *Malfoy* was *bothering* me, and Harry's being all 'are you okay' and 'here, let me carry that for you' and I think he might sort of *like* me and isn't *that* just precious timing?" She paused for breath, sitting on her stack of books and waiting for a response.

"And Draco doesn't want to be called Malfoy, and he's being very weird," she commented in the silence. "It's like - oh, I don't know what it's like. He's acting like another brother all the sudden, sort of, except .. well, not quite exactly like a brother." She flushed slightly, picking at a thread on the sodden sleeve of her robe. 

"And I'm .. well, it's a little better today," she said, more quietly. "But it's still .. the girl who spilt the pumpkin juice on me, I got so angry with her, which isn't anything new by itself, but I was thinking - I wanted to - Myrtle, are you listening?"

There was no answer. Ginny pushed herself up with a sigh and trudged over to Myrtle's usual stall, sticking her head in the door. "Are you even *here*?" 

No response. 

"Oh, well, that's bloody lovely," Ginny announced to no one. "I've been talking to myself. That's a bloody wonderful sign, isn't it? Quite the logical next step for me, don't you think, talking to myself?" She slammed the stall door shut in annoyance, stalking over to the sink and jerking the tap wide open, thinking to wash the pumpkin juice off her arms. 

Nothing happened; the metal creaked in protest, but there was no rush of water. Ginny glared at it in momentary vexation, before she realized what she'd done. 

__

She'd tried to turn *that* faucet on. 

That one's never worked.

Oh, it works. But not for water. Not for anything clean.

Cleansing of another sort. Perfect symbolism. Brilliant, just brilliant.

Sick, horrid, terrible.

But brilliant, you can't deny that, can you? 

She reached a sticky hand out tentatively, fingers brushing over the snake scratched into the side of the tap. 

__

I scratched that there, when I realized what I'd found; and it knew me. It opened for me. I'd never felt such elation .. it was almost enough, almost as good as - 

- no! 

Power. It was power. Power in a whisper, just a whisper, just - 

"Open," Ginny whispered, voice coming out strange and hissing. 

The tap began to spin; she jumped back with a strangled yelp. The sink was creaking and groaning, glowing with magic.

"I didn't mean to!" she shouted at it, scurrying back away from it. "I didn't mean to say anything out loud, I didn't mean it, stop it!" The floor shivered as the sink sank below it, out of view. "Stop it, close, close up, stop!" But the words came out just English, not that snake-like hiss, and the gaping hole in the tile floor did not respond.

The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets just sat there, wide open like a laughing mouth, gaping at her. 

"C-Close!" she yelled at it, shooting frantic glances at the door, terrified someone would come in just now, _just because they would, even though they never come in here, they would come in *now* just because that's my luck._

No they won't; you know they won't. They never do. No one will know.

I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to say anything, I didn't want to!

Didn't you? Why did you reach for that tap, when you know better? Why did you need to touch it? Why were you thinking of it?

I wasn't, I wouldn't!

I would. I would, and you are me, and I am you, and there is no one else here . . .

Sweating and feeling as though each step were a Herculean effort, as if her boots had suddenly turned to lead and grown too heavy to lift, Ginny made her way to the edge of the entrance to the Chamber. 

She stared down into the great black void of the tunnel; there was a way down, whispering at the edge of her memory. _It took me weeks to find it. The first trip down was a nasty tumble onto jagged rock and bone, but I knew there was a better way . . the great and noble Salazar Slytherin would not have slid down a pipe onto a pile of rocks, and it wasn't wide enough to comfortably accommodate a broom. _

The very existence of this entrance suggested other things. Things forgotten. Things lost as we grew soft and complacent and unworthy . . but I would be worthy.

Because it knew me. The Chamber knew me. The serpent knew me. 

It still knows me.

I am not going down there! What am I thinking? No! 

I just need to figure out how to close it, just talk snake-talk at it again and then I should run away and never come back here.

But .. I can't never come back here. What about Myrtle?

Stupid little mudblood - 

- the stupid little mudblood is my friend. The stupid little mudblood doesn't want me to die. And her blood's no dirtier than yours.

No, no, not true, I became more! I'm not - not flesh and blood, not dirty, not weak - powerful - I am Lord Voldemort - 

- I am Virginia Weasley and I should get the bloody hell out of here, right now - 

- I should remember. I should remember how to get down there. Because that place is mine. 

No, no, it's not . . his . . mine . . there's no one else here, just me, just both of me and I want . . I want what's mine . . 

Leave. Come back later, when Myrtle's here. Close it before someone sees, before someone sees and knows what you remember . . 

. . remember . . I want . . oh Merlin help me I want control, I want something for this, I want some recompense for everything, for all of this, for broken bones and dirty blood and chicken's blood and dirty feathers and crunch of bones and ink sinking into a page and feeling like fading . . like dying by inches . . there must be a reason, a reason why it had to be me. 

Not one of my brothers. Not Harry. Not Hermione. Would have been as easy, to slip the diary to one of them, but it was me - and I want *something* for that - is it so terrible to want to remember something more than being abused and beaten? Is it wrong to want the good bits if you're stuck with the bad?

Yes! Yes, it is! There are no good bits! There's just - 

- power. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. 

No! 

Yes, oh yes. 

You're afraid, aren't you, what it will do to you? Afraid you're not so much better than me after all. Afraid to seek power, afraid to learn the things I learned. Afraid to upset your tidy little world where you're worth something just because you're *good*.

No .. no, not afraid . . just . . 

.. afraid. Yes, afraid. 

Face your fears like a good little Gryffindor.

There is no right answer to this, is there? No right way to go . . you can't un-ask the question . . you can't take it back, you can't take anything back, not ever . . because we are more than flesh, more than blood . . we are memory . . we are everything we've ever done, been, seen . . I've already gone down there, I just don't - I don't - 

*I want to remember* 

It came to her, almost too easily, whispering up from another lifetime. With it came images, frighteningly ordinary images - faces in the Great Hall, sitting bored in Transfiguration twirling a quill and wondering how soon class would end and he could slip away to sneak into the Restricted Section, patrolling the hallways the first year he was made a prefect, the time perfect for thinking - stopping some stupid third year Hufflepuff who was running in the halls - 

__

Myrtle! 

Ginny gasped, and the memories fled, save one. She tried to whisper, her voice coming out a harsh, incoherent rasp. She swallowed, moistening her throat, tried again. This time the words came out clear to her own ears, an oddly melodic hiss. Shivering and trembling, she knew this was more than memory. She wasn't reciting, wasn't borrowing . . she understood herself, speaking parseltongue. 

__

This is a piece of me, too. 

My past, present, and future. 

"I come in desperate need," she hissed to the black void before her, and the walls within writhed. Creaky with rust and long disuse, thick filaments detached themselves from either side of the tunnel down. They wavered in the air, stretched, thrust forked tongues out at one another, tasting - _is that you? It's been so long, so long since anyone's awakened us. _She knew they were only magical constructs, not real, not actual creatures who could feel stiffness in their bones after a long sleep or find comfort in the familiarity of their companions, but their movements were uncomfortably organic, _real . . _

The top-most pair of snakes - their scales metallic bronze, gone green with age in places - lifted their heads from the tunnel, poking inquisitive tongues at Ginny's boots. She stood still as stone, and she didn't remember this - had they done this before? Greeted her like this? _Greeted him?_ She didn't think so, but she couldn't be sure. 

Slowly, seeming satisfied with their hissing inspection of her and of one another, they reached across the tunnel, twining their necks together like lovers greeting each other after a long absence. Something in it moved her, stirred a feeling that she was certain belonged to neither herself nor Riddle; it was beautiful in a way she didn't understand, but she could see that the design hadn't been careless. It seemed all wrong for this dank, forgotten place. 

Pair by pair, necks intimately entangled, the metallic snakes formed a ladder down. 

***

Faith rarely got into fights anymore; it still happened sometimes, that was unavoidable in prison. Especially when you're short, young, and - when deprived of your burgundy lipstick - sorta cutesy looking. She'd pounded in her share of faces on the inside, but she didn't go looking for fights anymore. It brought her too close to the line, brought her blood pumping a little too close to the surface of her skin - brought on thoughts like _I could be outta here any time I want. _

I don't need this. I'm all reformed and shit. Haven't killed anybody in ages. So why exactly do I need this shit again? 

The answer to which was, of course, because she was still having thoughts like those. She knew where the whole fuck-the-rules thing lead. She'd been there, done that, and gotten the snazzy orange jumpsuit - and she wasn't interested in being that any more. 

It probably would have helped if she'd had a clue what she *was* interested in being. Prison left entirely too much time for thinking; about her life, about her past, about her wrong number of a Calling. Somewhere along the line Faith had decided that somebody up there had really big-time fucked up when they assigned her superpowers. If there was any one person in the whole entire world who should *not* have superpowers, it was her. She figured maybe there had been a list, all in alphabetical order and crap, and it was the next girl down who was supposed to get Called. Or somebody else with her name. There was a cosmic computer glitch, the Powers That Be forgot their reading glasses, whatever - Faith was dead certain she had never really been meant to be the Slayer. 

But she heard the footsteps and the faint voices coming down the hall and woke from a sound sleep, sitting bolt upright in the bed, adrenaline pumping and muscles wound tight, ready to spring. Two of those voices had a distinct British accent, overlaid by a tone of resigned disgust. _Slayer instincts just don't die . . _

"Oh, we are so not doing this," she muttered incredulously as her midnight visitors came into view; the guard, she knew. Frank. Frank was a decent guy, for somebody who'd gone out and become a cop on purpose, she supposed. The other two were strangers, but she saw tweed, heard the Queen's English, and that was all she was interested in knowing about them. "Look, Frank, whatever these guys told you - " he was unlocking her cell door, giving her a tired, slightly bemused look that said clearly _just go with this, kid, okay? It's late. _" - that is *such* a shitty idea, look, you let them in here and I'm telling you there's gonna be a situation, and you know and I know that you can't really stop me if -" 

"We're not here to kill you, disappointingly enough," snapped one of the Watchers, pushing the barred door open the minute Frank finished with the lock. The other Watcher followed with a duffle bag - a heavy duffle bag, it seemed, from how he was struggling with it. 

"Right, and I'd believe you, except this is prison, not the psycho ward," Faith snapped back, crouching back on her pallet and easing into a defensive stance, keeping one eye on the two Watchers and the other on Frank, standing outside the cell and trying to look bored and not curious as all hell. "They're stingy with the happy pills around here." _I'd really rather Frank *didn't* get dead in the crossfire. He's a decent guy. _

See? I'm all reformed and crap. Really I am. 

So why's this shit have to happen now? 

"Charming as ever, I see," the lead Watcher returned, voice dripping sarcasm. The other had set the duffle down on the far end of her pallet and was unzipping it; Faith tensed when he reached inside. There was a fraction of a moment, when she saw his hand come out holding a wicked looking gun, where she almost jumped him. _Gun, hell, that thing could be a rocket launcher. _Then a millisecond later she recognized that he was holding it by the barrel; his finger was nowhere near the trigger, and besides, even if it was, he was pointing it at the wall. It also turned out to be, upon closer inspection, not all that wicked after all. It was a dart gun, sorta like the one Giles' used to keep for zonking out wolf boy when necessary, only meaner. 

"Whoa, hey!" Frank exclaimed from outside; Faith guessed that from his vantage point, he wasn't able to figure out the make and model of the artillery these guys were unloading. Not that dart guns were exactly legal on the inside, but they beat the hell out of getting caught with a semi-automatic, which is what the thing looked like from a distance. "Nobody said anything about - "

" - the large quantity of marijuana found in your daughter's car?" Watcher number two suggested smoothly.

"What?" Frank exclaimed. "What the hell is this? My daughter does not smoke dope and when the hell did -"

"And your daughter's smoking preferences have what to do with the situation?" the Watcher interrupted once again, quite calmly, still looking down into his duffle bag and unloading what looked like a cigar case, though Faith suspected it contained the darts for the gun. 

"You guys are just such fucking assholes," Faith pronounced, shaking her head, catching on a lot quicker than Frank, who was still protesting.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" the first Watcher inquired mildly, apparently amused by her outrage.

"Nah, I kiss yours," Faith snapped back. 

"I wanna know just what the hell is -" Frank was near to shouting, obviously spooked, and Faith could hear other voices coming awake up and down the cell block. The first Watcher reached out and quite calmly grabbed the cell door, the bars of which Frank was currently white-knuckling. It swung inward, and Frank swung inward with it. He was grabbed by the shoulder, the door slammed behind him. 

"Hey, you okay in there, girl?" called a vaguely familiar voice from across the hall. 

"Five by five!" Faith hollered back, then lowered her voice to a deceptively casual drawl. "Though some other people around here are gonna be shipped back to the mother country in bitty little boxes if they don't start telling me -" 

"What is going on, Mr. Callahan, is that you are going to shut your mouth," the first Watcher was hissing at Frank, who was paying silent and rapt attention; probably due to the arm pressed across his throat and the cinderblock wall at his back. Neither Watcher so much as acknowledged Faith or her threats. "You are going to keep your mouth shut from this point forward. You saw nothing. You heard nothing. In fact, you've been having a very trying week and you were so distracted that you really have no idea what was happening in this cell block at this hour. You may have accidentally dozed off. If you should happen to recall a different scenario, ever, when speaking to anyone at all, then I'm afraid that a rather significant quantity of illegal substances would make their way into the trunk of your daughter Meghan's 1989 Toyota Camry, which will tomorrow be parked in front of Hemery High School - parking slot number sixty .. four, is it?" 

Frank didn't answer. The Watcher with the duffle pulled out a small curved sword, sheathed but still deadly looking. He pushed the case of darts up the cot a little to make room for the sword; pushed it closer to Faith. 

"It would be *most* unfortunate if someone were to alert the police to the contraband in your daughter's possession, wouldn't it, Mr. Callahan?" 

__

What a total motherfucking shithead. Somebody needs their ass *kicked* back across the Atlantic.

"Yeah," Frank agreed hoarsely, when the pressure on his throat eased somewhat. He sounded absolutely petrified, with a touch of really pissed off. 

"Well, now that we've got that cleared up -" Faith said cheerfully, and lunged for the dart case, grabbing it one-handed and swinging it back against the wall, out of the clutching grasp of the Watcher now lunging over his duffle bag. The case hit the wall with a very satisfying cracking sound and sprang open; glass clinked as syringes rolled free, plummeting towards the ground. Faith dropped the case and grabbed a syringe with one hand just as the rest hit the floor and shattered, her other hand darting out to grab the arm of the Watcher who had been threatening Frank and family. She let his own momentum carry him head-first into the wall, jerking the cap off the syringe with her teeth at the same time; the other Watcher's advance across the cot was blocked by his associate's urgent appointment with the cinderblocks. 

She pulled back just a little, just in time to not actually crack his skull; he was stunned, though, and thus it was easy enough to whirl him around and pull him back against her chest, jaw held tightly, needle at his jugular. 

" - maybe someone wants to tell me what this crap is, before I jam it into this guy's throat," she finished conversationally. 

Frank just stood goggling, flattened against the wall. 

"It's a sedative," Watcher-with-duffle replied cautiously, tense, right hand twitching.

"Don't think it," Faith warned, jabbing the needle into the other Watcher's throat so that it just broke skin. "Leave your toys where you dropped them, you can pick up later. Right now, we're having a conversation, and I hate feeling ignored. So, if I dose this guy up, he'll just, what, pass out on me?" 

The Watcher in question made a strangled sort of groaning sound. The other said nothing, and she could practically hear the gears grinding in his brain. 

"Why am I thinking *not*?" she guessed. 

"It would kill him," the other Watcher confessed. Frank coughed loudly, bringing a shaking hand up to his already bruising throat. 

"Now see?" Faith teased while her brain spun. _I don't wanna kill this guy. I do *not* wanna fucking kill *anybody*! I don't *do* that anymore! But fuck it, I am not gonna roll over and die for them, either - and I gotta get poor old Frank outta here - _"This is why I don't believe you when you tell me things. There's just no trust in the relationship anymore." 

"They were never meant for you!" the Watcher in her grasp squeaked out. 

"Okay, so, saying I get a sudden lobotomy and believe that, that means, what? I'm supposed to be your pet assassin now? 'Cause they were meant for somebody." 

"They would not kill their intended target," explained the Watcher who was currently backing towards the cell door in infinitesimally small, shuffling little steps. _He's gonna try and bail, isn't he? And leave his good buddy here to the psycho bitch with the needle. So much for all that loyalty crap, huh? _

Why does no one else ever notice how much the so-called good guys suck at their job? 

"And here we're running into confusion again, 'cause you just told me they would," Faith argued. 

"They would kill Mr. Davenport -"

"Oh, good, names. Nice to meet you, Mr. Davenport," Faith quipped, giving the Watcher's jaw a little shake for emphasis. 

" - but they would not kill a Slayer," the other Watcher finished. 

__

A Slayer. But they were never meant for me.

"What happened to Buffy?" Faith demanded. 

***

TBC . . 


	27. Belonging

Title: Belonging

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Discoveries, kisses, understanding and its lack. 

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at 

Pathetic creature that *I* am, I'm gonna have to dedicate this chapter to the mouse known as Pathetic Creature. Good luck out there, hope you find a place that's yours. (If this makes no sense to you whatsoever, read my Livejournal.) 

***

_Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever. _

_Stupid useless thing, couldn't even dispose of a 12-year-old boy. _

The skeletal remains of the basilisk lay where it had fallen, shrouded in its own desiccated skin. The stones beneath its gargantuan skull were stained a dull black. Its scales had faded to a paler shade of green, but still glistened faintly in the dim light; the sockets where its deadly eyes had been were empty and staring, a match for the hollow carved eyes of the serpents that marched the length of the Chamber. 

Salazar Slytherin's enormous stone mouth hung open, as if in perpetual shock. 

Here and there about the Chamber were feathers, dusty and red. She'd picked one up, and it had made her sneeze, so she'd dropped it again. Her footsteps echoed; water dripped from the stalactites that adorned the ceiling, the very tips of them just dipping into the soft gloaming light that suffused the Chamber. 

_I wonder where the light comes from. It ought to be dark in here. Darker than it is, even. _

_It was brighter, fifty years ago. It's fading. Dying. _

_I won't let it fade - the Heir of Slytherin will not allow his will to fade into memory and shadow - _

_I am not the Heir of Slytherin! I'm Ginny Weasley and my legs ache and my palms sting from the climb down and I don't - I don't know what I'm doing here. _

Suddenly exhausted, she sat, just a few feet from the fallen basilisk. Sometime in the last three years its jaw had come unhinged, and it lay at an odd disjointed angle to the top of its skull, giving the appearance that the creature had been deformed. It looked too big to be real. 

Ginny rubbed carefully at her aching wrist, shifted carefully so that her bruised and scraped leg wasn't touching the damp stone. About three-quarters of the way down the tunnel, her heavy boots had slid on the damp and slippery metal, and she'd fallen. 

A metallic serpent had darted out to catch her, twining about a clutching hand hard enough to grind the bones together, tightening about her wrist. The angle of the tunnel hadn't been so steep at that point that the fall would have killed her, but it would have hurt. Perhaps broken bones.

_Perhaps kept me from moving; perhaps my skeleton would have lain here after all. _

For long moments after, the tunnel had been all hissing, writhing agitation; she'd let herself fall back against the wall, panting with exertion and the sudden rush of adrenaline. The snake twined about her wrist had loosened its frantic, bruising grip a little as several of its fellows moved to support her. They'd sought out her hands, the ones that could reach, butting their heads against her rather like a cat might, seeking reassurance. 

_Oh, don't fall, you can't fall, you can't die now, you've only just awoken us and it's been so very long . . _

There'd been an irrational, disjointed burst of jealousy along with it; _they'd never acted like that before. _

_They never acted like that for me. Him. They let him - no, me - no, not me, not me - they let him fall. _

_He didn't die. Didn't break his bones. His bones didn't lie there in the tunnel and rot. _

_The Chamber is MINE .. the basilisk was mine . . everything coddles you, doesn't it, everything sees how weak and soft you are, even this place - _

_- or maybe they just *wanted* you to die, hrmm? Maybe they saw what a twisted, wretched thing you were and hoped you'd break your foul neck. _

_"Where's Riddle? Where's that devil-spawn little bastard?" _

_Did I deserve it? Were they right, hrmm? _

_No - no, no one deserves - _

_Yes, they do! Yes, they do, for being weak, for being just walking mindless corpses, powerlessly, no control, they deserve to be used, they deserve to be stripped of all their lies and shown for what they are, just flesh, just rotting flesh - _

_- like your basilisk, hrmm? _

_Just skin over bones. Just flesh. _

_It should have killed him! It should have won, it was a trick, that phoenix - it was Dumbledore, the interfering old fool, it wasn't the boy, he was *nothing* - it was an error in judgement, thinking I was dealing with the boy alone - I'll know better now - _

_ - but you won't, will you, because you're *dead*. _

_Of course I am. I'm not here at all. Just you, but you are me, and we . . we could be something great and powerful . . _

Ginny leaned forward and knelt carefully, hissing at the sting of the damp stone against her upbraided knee. With one hand she reached out to touch the basilisk's half-collapsed snout. Its skin was cool and, beneath a fine film of mineral-water dew, papery and dry. Just the faintest brush of fingertips left a small indentation; a crinkle that said the whole thing was near to crumbling to dust. 

_It was MINE. _

"I'm sorry," Ginny told the basilisk's vacantly staring skull, pulling her hand back to herself and cradling it against her chest, as if the feel of paper-fine flesh had burned. "This wasn't your fault, was it?"

_It's never their fault, the ones you use. They're incapable of fault, they're incapable of *thought*, hateful, pathetic, rotting creatures - no reason not to use them any way you wish, because you can, because that's all there is - _

_No, there's Myrtle. Draco. Harry who didn't have to come down here after me, though I suppose he did it for Ron's sake . . _

_ . . or maybe he did it because he's Harry Potter, and that's what Harry Potter does. Defeats the monster, saves the day. Maybe he did it because that's all he knows how to be . . and isn't that really the same thing . . _

_No, it's not. It's not. It can't be. I just - I just know it can't be. _

_Do you? Do you know anything? _

_You don't know who you are. You don't know who's whispering in your head, you silly little girl. What do you know about *anything*? _

_I know about you. I know all about you. _

_If it was *yours*, you should have protected it. You should have kept it safe. _

"No one asked you, did they?" Ginny inquired of the bones. "I don't suppose, when you were just a little basilisk, just hatched, that Slytherin came along and said, 'well, little basilisk, how would you like to go live in a nasty dank pit away from any of your kind and eat nothing but rats and whatever other creatures are stupid enough to wander in from the dark forest, and stay there for centuries and centuries with no company at all, except for the occasional psychotic who'll let you out to kill people?' And you said, 'oh yes, that sounds like a great time.' I don't suppose that's how it happened." 

"No, I suppose he probably captured you," Ginny guessed, tilting her head at it. "And locked you up here, and then he went away. I don't suppose you had much choice in it at all." 

_What drivel - what sentimental, pathetic drivel - it was a tool, a magnificent tool, but just a thing to be used. The embodiment of Salazar Slytherin's power, of his will - _

_- no, but it wasn't. It spoke. It thought. It had a bloody goddamned will of its own and it's not bloody fair at all that it has to lie here and rot for no good reason other than that someone used it and broke it like a toy! _

_Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever - well no it bloody well will not! I will not be your tool, your *thing* - not yours - _

Something moved, and Ginny froze, mind suddenly emptying of all rational thought. All along the twisted remains of the basilisk, something was moving. 

Her heart leapt into her throat, and in the sudden rush of adrenaline there was no second voice in her head, no disparity of thought or memory. Poised and ready to fight of flee, there was a momentary clarity that was neither Tom nor Ginny, but just the determination to survive. 

It was a shadow, slowly creeping forward; just the shadow of the skeleton, sliding along the ground as shadows do at dusk, fleeing from the slowly sinking brightness of the sun. 

_But . . we're underground, the light hasn't changed . . _

But it had, she realized half a second later; it had grown brighter in the last few moments. The light seemed warmer, too, not the diffuse underwater glow that had illuminated the chamber in her every memory of it, but something more like the amber light of candles. She looked up, seeking the source of this new brightness. 

That soft, welcoming glow was coming from the statue of Slytherin. It filtered dimly down from eyes that, when lit from behind, showed themselves to be carved of some pale translucent stone, different from the rest of the face. Brighter light spilled forth from the ancient Founder's open, astonished-looking mouth. Ginny blinked, her eyes slow to adjust; Salazar's statue looked like some ancient mythical god, spewing the sun forth from his mouth. She crept tentatively forward, along the edge of the skeletal basilisk's shadow. 

The distinct feeling of being watched made her cask quick, darting glances over her shoulder as she went; only the stone serpents looked back. Remembering the snakes in the tunnel, the way they'd flicked tongues at her boots, the way they'd rubbed their heads against her hands, she couldn't be entirely sure they *weren't* watching. Waiting. _Waiting to wake up . . it's been so long . . _

She shook her head free of the thought alien to both selves, and peered up into brightly lit, cavernous space of Salazar Slytherin's mouth. She knew it went somewhere, because the basilisk had come from it, but neither she nor Tom had ever known where.

_This had never happened for him. _

_Mine - the Chamber is MINE - it knew me, the serpent knew me - _

_But the serpent is rotting bones now, isn't it? Isn't that what you would say? _

Feeling a little odd about grabbing the statue's lip, half expecting it to flinch and protest, Ginny hoisted herself into up onto the ledge from whence the light came. The stone was faintly warm. 

Wall sconces in the shape of snakes lined the walls, every few feet; the candles were burnt near to stubs, and here and there they were burnt down completely, too far to be lit. The snakes turned their heads to watch her, bobbing in greeting, careful not to spill the candles from the tops of their heads. She had the ridiculous idea that the ones with burnt-out candles looked faintly embarrassed. 

"Hello," she blurted, feeling distinctly overwhelmed. Her voice came out hissing. 

_We've been waiting .. we've been waiting so long .. _hissed a whisper that was neither entirely in her head, nor entirely out. 

The passage widened and darkened as it went further back, sloping downward into another tunnel that disappeared into the dark earth; she could see a faint mineral-stained trail that must have been left by the basilisk as it returned from its forays into the plumbing. But reaching out over that tunnel was a set of suspended stairs, of the same softly gleaming polished stone as Slytherin's eyes. A second tunnel curved upward, into the giant stone skull of the Founder, and the lights followed that passage up. 

Tom, somewhere at the back of her mind, was dumbstruck. 

_It doesn't look like the home of a monster. It doesn't look like the home of a monster at all. _

***

"Weasley?" Draco inquired in a surreptitious hiss, sticking his head into the 3rd floor girls' bathroom quickly, before pulling back to glance up and down the hall again. It was the middle of 2nd period - History of Magic had seemed the easiest prospect for cutting without his absence being noticed. _I don't think Binns would notice if his own nose went missing, much less one of his students. _There was no particular reason for anyone to be in the hallway, 

_Except to catch you, sneaking into a girls' loo. Except just because it would fuck up your afternoon, and that seems like it's plenty reason lately. _

"Weasel-girl, are you in there?" he called, a little more loudly, and then inhaled a cloud of dust. It tickled the back of his throat. Holding his breath and turning purple with the effort, he stumbled hastily into the bathroom before exploding into a fit of coughing. 

Dust motes shimmered in the air, swirling with his movement. He remembered the bathroom being rather grimy and dilapidated, but he didn't remember there being this much dust. _But then, you were probably distracted by the Weasel-girl bleeding all over the place and, oh yes, channeling Voldemort. Mustn't forget that part. _

Draco crept hesitantly further into the room, out of immediate view of the doorway. His boots slipped a little on something damp and slimy, causing him to stumble, and then to start coughing again. When he could breathe again, he glanced down to see what had tripped him, grimacing in disgust at all the possible things that could be wet and slippery in a bathroom. 

All he saw was a thick track of wet mineral residue on the floor. It lead off towards the sinks in glistening lines, as if something old and decaying and metal had been dragged along the floor. 

"This place is disgusting," Draco announced, to no one in particular. He jumped and almost fell again when a derisive female voice snapped back, "Well no one *made* you come in here, now did they?" 

Draco turned around to find the ghost - _Mildred or Millicent or something like that - Myrtle? I think it's Myrtle. Not that I care - _glowering down at him, arms folded across her chest. She might have looked more intimidating if her pet rat hadn't been sitting atop her head, busily making a nest of her hair. 

"No - unlike some people, I can come and go as I please," Draco retorted, sneering. Myrtle gave an affronted gasp, wide round eyes tearing up behind her thick glasses. 

"Well why don't you just get out, then!" she shrieked indignantly, before giving a loud, hiccoughing sob and zooming off towards one of the stalls. The rat fell off of her head with a startled squeak, hanging in mid-air for a moment and giving Draco a look that seemed to say _now see what you've done? _There was a loud splash, the clank of abused porcelain, and Draco had to back hurriedly away around the sinks to avoid his boots being soaked in the sudden flood. 

The rat paddled off after its mistress, moving through the air as if it were swimming; loud, pitiful wailing could be heard echoing up from the pipes. 

_Weasel-girl is not going to be happy with me for this, _Draco realized, shaking a few drops of water from the tip of one boot and scowling in utter revulsion. 

"I'm looking for Wease - I mean Ginny," Draco shouted after the ghost. She just sobbed more loudly. "Has she been here?" No response. 

_Stupid bloody ghosts. Stupid bloody *girls*. Why the hell am I bothering with this, anyway? _

_Because she was upset at breakfast and Delacroix spilled juice on her, the stupid little bitch. _

_And how the hell is that my problem? _

_Because I don't like seeing her bleed. _

_She's covered in pumpkin juice, not bleeding, you stupid git. She's fine. She's probably just in the bath washing off - _his mind immediately flooded with images of Ginny Weasley, bathing. _Bet she's got freckles just everywhere - _

_But it's not like you're ever going to know, you stupid wanking git, because this is Ginny Weasley you're thinking about. The crazy Weasel-girl. The little good-girl Gryffindor with the tomato soup hair and the six sodding brothers, at least two of which are Beaters, who will thrash the living shit out of you if you ever even think of finding out where all their sister has freckles. _

_Of course, maybe I could thrash the living shit out of them. I'm the crazy bastard who damned near killed Harry Potter, right? _

_Oh, yes, brilliant plan. Why not just kill off the lot of them, while you're at it. Then you could just kidnap her and rape her, too, and then you could just turn into your bloody fucking father. That's how he'd think, isn't it? You want her, so take her, use her, throw her away when you're done. _

_Like my mother. He was going to fetch her. Like a cloak, like a pair of gloves - _

The ghost was still sobbing and moaning. 

"Look, just tell me if she's been here or not!" Draco shouted at the ghost, kicking disconsolately at the base of a sink. It echoed hollowly. _Maybe it's better if I don't find her. I feel like breaking things again. Feel like making things bleed - don't want to see her blood, don't like her bleeding - don't know why I fucking care, don't know why I hate everything so fucking much, I hate you Father, I hate you so fucking much. _

_You're going to bleed for what you did to her. To Weasel girl with her tomato soup hair and her freckled lips and I don't want her . . I don't want her like that. Not to take. Not to use. _

_I just .. I just want her. _

_I want my mother to be alive. I want Pansy to be alive, and Weasel-girl to be sane, and I want .. I want to be able to fucking do something for once . . _

He kicked the sink hard enough to dislodge the drop of water that had been hanging from the faucet. A tiny piece of varnish cracked and fell away, clinking on the tile. 

"Stop *breaking* my *things*," Myrtle scolded, and Draco looked up to see her glowering over the top of her stall. 

He kicked the base of the sink again, glaring at her. She made a near-apoplectic little choking sound. 

"Why don't you go cry over it some more?" Draco sneered.

"You are the most horrible boy I have ever met!" Myrtle pronounced tearfully, though she sounded closer to furious than hurt. 

"I'm wounded," Draco snapped back drily. "Now could you just bloody tell me if Weasel-girl was here and stop wasting my bloody time?" 

"I'm going to tell her you called her that," Myrtle said through her tears, sounding nastily triumphant. 

"She knows I call her that," Draco retorted, beginning to feel as though he'd spent the last several minutes banging his head against a wall. "I call her that to her face, all the bloody time. She doesn't care." 

"Oh," Myrtle sounded disappointed, and didn't bother to hide it. "Well, then I'm going to tell her that you were kicking my sink." 

"Good!" said Draco, and kicked the sink again. Another piece of paint fell off and hit the tile with an entirely inappropriate, almost musical-sounding plink. 

"She's going to hate you," Myrtle taunted. "She's going to think you're the meanest, most awful boy that ever lived!" 

"*Everyone* thinks I'm the meanest, most awful boy that ever lived!" Draco exclaimed. "At least I don't hide in a toilet and cry about it!"

"So then why don't you stop hiding in *my* toilet and get out!" Myrtle shot back. 

"Because I need to find Weasel-girl because some stupid bint threw pumpkin juice at her and she was upset!" Draco shouted. 

"Oh," Myrtle paused, considering this. "Is she okay?" the ghost asked a moment later.

"Well how should I know," Draco asked, throwing up his hands, "considering I can't bloody find her!" 

"Oh," Myrtle said again, floating over towards the sinks, her tears vanishing with suspicious speed. "Well, I've been down to the lake all morning, so I wouldn't know if she's been here. I hope I didn't miss her, if she was upset . . " the ghost let it trail off, perching on the edge of the much-abused sink and chewing on a strand of her hair. 

"Well, she seemed mostly okay," Draco said with a shrug. _And why in the bloody hell am I reassuring a ghost? A pathetic sobbing ghost who lives in a disgusting run-down old bathroom, and this is wasting my time - _

"Who threw the juice at her?" Myrtle asked, a speculative note to her rather nasal, grating voice. 

"Delacroix," Draco answered. "Claudette Delacroix. Don't suppose you'd know her." 

"I don't think she's been in here," Myrtle mused. _I think she'd bloody well rather die than come in here, _Draco thought, but didn't say it. "What's she look like?" 

"Skinny, bug-eyed, curly blonde hair, decent enough tits - oh, guess you didn't care about that last," Draco smirked as Myrtle glared. 

"Well," Myrtle dragged the word out, clearly thinking as she spoke, "I can move things *sometimes*, you know. I can make the toilet splash." 

"Good for you," Draco said tonelessly.

"So I think if I concentrated *very* hard, I could probably get some water weeds from the lake," Myrtle pondered aloud. "And put them in one of the taps, when she's using the bath, if I could recognize her." She turned and gave Draco a very nasty, conspiratorial little look; he tried not to show his surprise. _And where did the pathetic whimpering little girl of five minutes ago get *that* look from? _"It smells absolutely *dreadful* when it's rotted," Myrtle confided. 

"Does it now?" Draco asked, finding himself grinning back, and wondering silently if he'd gone officially out of his mind. _I'm concocting pranks with a Hufflepuff ghost. Somebody kill me now. _

"Absolutely dreadful," Myrtle nodded enthusiastically. 

***

A pot of ink, dried to crackling flakes of black at the bottom of the little stone jug, still sat on the bedside table. The quill that lay next to it disintegrated into dust when Ginny touched it, leaving just the ink-stained stub of the shaft intact. Beside that lay a book; unmarked, bound in black leather, still smooth beneath Ginny's shaking fingers. 

_He preserved this; the charms must have been very good, very strong, to have lasted so long. So many centuries . . _

She snatched her hand back to herself, sitting down hard on the narrow bed. The deep green velvet coverlet crinkled and cracked audibly as she sat; it was so plush and thick she felt in danger of drowning in it. _Or maybe I just feel in danger of drowning. A black-bound book. A diary, preserved over years and years .. oh Merlin, it looks *just* like it . . _

_ . . it was perfect and I didn't even know it. Just what Slytherin himself would have chosen, the instrument I chose to preserve my will, his will - _

_- but then why . . . why didn't I find this before? _

_Why didn't the Chamber show this to *me* - no, not me! You are not - not me - I am not you - I am not - _

_- it looks *just* like it. _

The entire far wall was nothing but bookshelves, lined with tome upon dusty tome. The leather was cracked on all of them; in one corner it appeared that a family of mice had moved in and built a nest. There was a strong smell of mildew to the entire place, and Ginny knew that it would have all been decayed beyond recognition if it hadn't been protected by stronger wards than any she knew. After a thousand years the rooms still looked lived-in. A pair of boots, embroidered and clearly once fine, sat in a corner. A chest sat open, looking thoroughly rummaged-through, full of medieval garments she couldn't begin to identify. There were books stacked on the bed itself, next to the sagging pillow. One of those books was still open, the ink on the pages faded almost into illegibility. The pillow still held the impression of a weary head. 

_But nothing was preserved so thoroughly, so carefully, as that one book. _

_I wonder why he left it, if it was so important. _

_For his heir to find, I suppose. _

_I should have found it - I am the Heir, I am Slytherin's blood, you are nothing, nothing at all without me, you were just *convenient* - _

_- but not so convenient after all, was I? _

_I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why the Chamber should - why it should - _

_- why it should know me. _

She reached again for the book; a serpentine wall-sconce was watching her closely. She traced her fingers over the fine texture of the leather, trembling. It felt warm, almost alive - but then, the whole room did. 

_This should have been mine. The Chamber is *mine*, Slytherin's blood flowed in *my* veins, this is - _

_- mine. _

Ginny bit her lip, feeling nauseas with the sudden certainty in her gut. 

_Mine. This is mine. _

_No, no, no . . not again, not again . . please - _

_- it's not yours, it can't be, it belongs to *me* - _

_- but you don't exist, do you? You're not real at all. There's only me, here in my head . . _she suddenly realized she was sitting inside the giant carved stone head of Salazar Slytherin, and felt a bubble of hysterical laughter escape her_. _

_I am you . . you are me . . _

_ .. then it's ours, isn't it? _

_No! No, don't think like that, stop it, not *ours*, there is no *us*, he's not *real* - _

_- but this is real. This is *mine*. _

_And why would it be, if not because of me? _

She picked up the book; the wood of the table under it was darker, more highly polished than the rest. It was heavy, and the weight of it felt oddly right in her hands. 

_Don't do this. Leave. Run. Get out of here, don't do this - _

_- can't leave it, can't just leave it here to rot and die and fade, can't, it's mine - it's mine, and I should protect it - we should have protected it - _

_- protected what? Protected who? _

_I don't know who's in my head . . _

Ginny set the diary ever so carefully down on her knees, and opened the cover. 

***

"Don't you have a class you should be teaching?" 

Willow jumped at the deep, silken voice at her shoulder, yelping and nearly dropping her book. She turned to glare at Severus. 

"And when did you figure out how to be all quiet-like?" she snipped. In a far, secluded corner of the Restricted Section, she was reasonably sure no students were going to overhear her addressing a fellow faculty member with a distinct lack of proper respect. 

"Oh, I'm quite accomplished at skulking about," he returned. "Just ask your students. You haven't misplaced them, have you?" 

"No," she retorted sharply. "They're here. Researching. I gave them symptoms and they have to figure out the curse that would cause them and then find the counter-curse and then they have to locate the ingredients and stuff in the castle and - so if you're capable of quietness, what's with slamming my door all the time?" 

"Ingredients?" Severus gave her a wary look, folding his arms and leaning back against the library shelves. "I hope you're not expecting me to permit your students to raid my storeroom." 

"They don't *actually* need the ingredients," Willow rolled her eyes. "They just need to write down where to find them. It's not like they have to really make the antidote, I didn't curse anybody for real." 

"Pity," Severus quipped dryly. "If you ever consider it, would you permit me to suggest -"

"No, I would not," she snapped, crossing her own arms and glaring, though feeling inwardly pleased. _I didn't think I'd get to see him again until dinner. _

_And gee, you might die of that, not seeing him for a whole eight hours. Will you get a freakin' grip? _

"And what is this curse they are researching so *diligently*," he inquired with obvious sarcasm. 

"I don't think there's an official name for it, 'cause I think it got invented by a bunch of frat boys, but Buffy got hit with it in - what do you mean, 'so diligently', like that? They're researching!" Willow insisted.

"If you say so," he smirked.

"What?" she demanded. "Who'd you catch doing what?" 

"I'm afraid I discovered Miss Johnson and Mr. Weasley - one of the older set - in a rather compromising position, over in the herbology section," Severus related with obvious relish. 

"Well maybe they were researching . . something .. you are such an ass!" Willow slapped at his arm at his suggestively quirked eyebrow. He caught her hand. "Okay, fine," she glared, as he turned her hand around so that the palm was up. "You can just let go of me and I'll go be all teacherly and discipline them and stuff." 

"I've already sent them scurrying off, minus quite a few house points," Severus murmured, studying her palm. "I'm quite curious to know what you think they may have been researching." Willow felt her heart thumping up into her throat. _He's *not* coming on to me in the library. No way. Not Mr. Rules and Regulations. _

He began tracing idle lines on her palm, with his other hand. 

"Well . .herbology stuff," Willow insisted, feeling all the blood rush right out of her head and toward other, more interesting parts of her body. _Maybe he couldn't wait eight hours to see me again either. Maybe he felt like . . oh man, like my knees are just gonna fall right out from under me and I'm gonna fall right on my butt in the middle of the library . . _

_This is not how a responsible adult-type person who should be supervising her students' research should be acting! _

_Or him either! _

_Not that I'm planning on stopping him or anything . . _

"Herbology," Severus repeated doubtfully, drawing a nail lightly up and down her wrist. 

"They were in the herbology section," Willow responded, well aware she was making no sense whatsoever. 

"They were," he agreed, and pulled her hand up to his lips. His tongue drew a tiny, hot circle in the center of her palm.

"And what - what were you doing there?" Willow asked, vaguely bewildered at the breathless hitch to her own voice. _This is just hands. Totally appropriate-for-public stuff, and I'm about to melt into a puddle. _

"I was looking for Mr. Not-Malfoy," Snape responded a little sharply, grimacing and giving her an annoyed look that said he didn't appreciate the change of subject. It must not have upset him too greatly, though, because he proceeded to kiss the pad of her thumb, and then her first finger. "Apparently, he was absent from his History of Magic class." 

"I guess you didn't find him," Willow surmised, as he kissed the tip of her middle finger. 

"No," Severus agreed, sighing. "Nor am I likely to find the little miscreant until he wants to be found. I thought I might find some peace and quiet here before -" he scowled and grimaced as though he'd bitten something sour "-my fourth period."

"Hufflepuff/Gryffindor?" Willow guessed, wondering if there was something very wrong with her, because the mundane conversation was only increasing her arousal. She put the book she'd been clutching in her free hand carefully back on the shelf, afraid of dropping it.

"First years," Severus said, in a tone that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. His teeth lightly grazed her littlest finger. 

"Poor you," Willow commiserated. "And instead of peace and quiet, you found me."

"So I did," he agreed, looking up, having run out of hand. 

"Is that okay?" she asked, shifting closer. _We're in the Restricted Section. Way in the back. Lots of tall bookshelves. No one comes back here . . the odds of anyone seeing would be like, one in three bazillion . . _

"Tolerable," he said with a smirk that made her insides quiver and jump, and tugged her against him. He released her hand, and she wound her arms around his neck as their lips met. 

Willow may have heard shuffling feet, or rustling robes, but she was so caught up in the kiss that she didn't really care. His tongue was doing wonderful things and one of his large, callused hands had found its way to the small of her back and was clenching, digging short nails ever so slightly into her back, pressing her hard against him. There was still something down in the pit of her gut that wasn't sure she should be doing this, but it was definitely smaller than it had been. Much larger was the melting, trembling feeling of rightness; she wanted to crawl inside his warmth, to pull him right through her skin, to just curl together into one being. She could feel - 

- someone bumping into her back.

Someone who definitely wasn't her gave a horrified little shriek.

She echoed it, shoving Severus away so hastily she almost tripped herself on her own robes. Willow spun around to find herself faced with a completely mortified Angelina Johnson. Angelina was wearing a shade of dark plum lipstick that Willow thought might have been flattering had it been on her lips; at the moment it was smeared in a vivid streak across the girl's cheek.

A good portion of it also seemed to be adorning Fred Weasley's open-hanging, utterly dumbstruck mouth. 

"OhmygodIamsosorry!" Angelina exclaimed in a rush. Fred just stood there. Willow thought she probably could have pushed him right over with one finger. 

"FIFTY POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR!" Severus bellowed, sputtering. Fred swallowed and paled visibly, and finally closed his mouth. Angelina just watched Willow with wide, pleading eyes. "AND DETENTION!" Severus ranted on. "FOR A MONTH! WITH FILCH! AND -"

Willow started giggling; Angelina hiccoughed and snorted, and then slapped a horrified hand over her mouth. Fred turned to look at his girlfriend like she'd lost her mind. 

" - SUSPENSION FROM ALL EXTRA-CURRICULAR ACTIVITIES FOR -" 

"We'll all discuss this l-later," Willow interrupted, trying hard not to laugh outright. The way Angelina was now stuffing her fist in her mouth in a similar effort was really not helping. "You will both serve your first detention with me, tomorrow night, and we'll .. discuss this," Willow finished, grabbing Severus' arm and dragging him away. 

"We will not discuss this!" he objected furiously, stalking after her and letting himself be led along to another secluded - _hopefully *more* secluded - _corner. Behind them, she heard a virtual explosion of laughter. 

***

There were words on the page. 

Ginny thought she might collapse with utter relief; as it was, she heard herself giggling senselessly. 

_I don't giggle; my brothers would never let me hear the end of it if I giggled. _

_It's not like the other diary. It's not. It's just a plain old ordinary diary like anyone might keep. Just words, and - _she turned the page, and a pen-and-ink sketch of a woman turned to look at her. 

It didn't speak, but it smiled. Ginny had never seen a sketch that could move like a painting could, but this one seemed quite mobile, for all her incompleteness. Lines of ink shifted as they were needed, and she seemed almost to be standing up out of the page as if it were murky water. The sketch blinked and tilted its head to the side, considering Ginny as Ginny considered her. She looked young, perhaps as few years older than Ginny herself, and very beautiful. 

For a moment Ginny was so enraptured with the thoughtful-looking young woman that she just stared; then it occurred to her to wonder who Salazar Slytherin might be sketching. 

The words on the page were no help, because on closer inspection she discovered she couldn't read them. Here and there a syllable seemed familiar, but put all together, it might as well have been nonsense. 

_Of course, it was written a thousand years ago. It's not going to be modern English. _

_I can't read Old English. _She felt a stab of nearly physical disappointment. 

_I suppose I could cast a translating charm, but . . I've never been very good at charms. _

_I can't risk ruining it . . this is precious . . the writing of one of the Founders .. _

_ . . of Salazar Slytherin himself, his own words .. _

_ . . I can't possibly take the risk. _

_But . . then I'll never be able to read it . . _

_I could take it to someone . . Dumbledore, it should go to Dumbledore, it should belong to the school - _

Almost without knowing what she was doing, she was clutching the diary tighter. 

_It's MINE. My legacy, my right - _

_ - my right for everything that happened for no reason at all - my recompense for everything - _

_It's just a diary. Just an ordinary diary. It can't be all that. _

_But it's mine. _

_I should just . . just leave it here. Where I found it. I should just leave this all be, and go. _

Ginny pushed herself off the faintly musty-smelling bed, causing a cloud of dust to rise from the plush duvet. She meant to put the diary back down on the small table, with its dried ink and the dusty residue that had been the quill, but she couldn't quite let it go. When she'd crept back out past the remains of the basilisk, looking behind her to see the candle-glow dying as she moved farther away, back to the tunnel and the patiently waiting ladder of snakes, the diary was hidden in an inside pocket of her robe. It had fit perfectly, and she couldn't even feel its weight. 

***

TBC . . 


	28. A Perfect Day

Title: A Perfect Day

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: - sums it up better than I can, and was (among other songs) inspirational for this chapter.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - - It occasionally contains fic-related ramblings.

Draco's feet ached. The tread on the shoes Snape had bought for him – _"Do I look like I care about bloody shoes? Here –" and he'd grabbed a truly pathetic-looking pair off the very bottom shelf "- how about these? So we're done here now, right?" – _was wearing down unevenly, growing thin in a pattern that matched his sullen, slouching walk. On the left side he thought he could almost feel the texture of the stone through his equally pitiful socks. He also strongly suspected that the Corner Cobbler's Guaranteed Perfect Fit Charm was wearing off, as the left shoe pinched his toes and the right one was increasingly in danger of being left behind every time he took a step.

He couldn't recall ever having a pair of shoes that hadn't fit perfectly, maintained themselves in mint condition long past the time that he'd grown bored with them or outgrown them, and also moderated their own interior temperature. Cold, ill-fitting shoes forced onto cold, sore feet after a night of not sleeping was near the top of his growing list of things that made him wonder how in the hell Muggles – _and poor Wizards – like the Weasleys, like Weasel-girl – _managed to survive at all.

__

I am not asking that greasy useless git for new shoes. I won't give him the fucking satisfaction. Bugger that.

Somebody in this fucking place has got to know how to fix the charms on shoes.

Which would be useful if I wanted to admit to anybody that I've got defectively charmed shoes and thin useless socks and robes that shrank when the house elves washed them and when I told Bletchley that I was quitting the team he just said "alright then" and shrugged and added "Seeker" to the try-out roster and I was not that fucking bad at it, he could have at least asked why, he could have at least given a shit, they're all still flying around on the brooms that Father bought them, aren't they, the bloody ungrateful little bastards –

A flash of dark red hair caught his eye, down the corridor, appearing for a second and then disappearing behind some random Hufflepuff's shoulders.

"Hey Weasel-girl!" Draco shouted; several heads turned at his shout, the overall din of hallway conversation dropping to a low murmur. He saw a bug-eyed Ravenclaw girl elbow her friend in the side, whispering excitedly when the other girl turned to look. _Look, it's him. That's the boy that almost killed Harry Potter. He almost got expelled, but he didn't, because Snape made this big speech about how he didn't want to be a Death Eater, though I'm not sure I believe that. I mean, it's Draco Malfoy, after all. Have you ever heard of a Malfoy who wasn't a Death Eater?_

Have you ever heard of a Malfoy who wouldn't sell his soul for the right price? A department at the Ministry or a seat on the Hogwarts board or the Wizengamot – I heard Lucinda telling Evie that her father heard at work that before – you know – that his father was looking very good for a seat on the Wizengamot – of course that's just what I heard –

Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them.

"Weasel!" Draco shouted again, shoving awkwardly through a crowd too thin to really require shoving, if they hadn't all slowed to a snail's pace and clumped together in bunches, trying half-heartedly not to look like they were watching him. Red hair appeared again between the heads of a giggling, unabashedly staring throng of Gryffindors, then vanished, then reappeared alone on a staircase, going down.

He could see that her head was bent, hair obscuring her face, but it was definitely Ginny. She was walking very slowly, almost dreamily; she tripped and lurched forward, a pale freckled hand darting out to grab the railing. She crouched for a moment, skirt and robes riding up to show knobby knees between the railing posts, and retrieved some dropped object that Draco couldn't see. Then she continued on at the same unconcerned pace, fingers left dragging cautiously on the railing.

Draco broke into a run, ignoring the indignant squawks of the other students he elbowed out of his way. He'd gone about two steps when he felt his right shoe sliding off; he tried to jam his foot back into it, but succeeded only in tripping himself.

He landed sprawled out on the stone floor, the books he'd been carrying strapped behind him landing neatly in the center of his back and forcing the air from his lungs with an inelegant grunt. He heard his shoe also hitting the floor, bouncing a few steps, and then settling.

For a moment there was silence; then, a cautious tittering. It expanded into vaguely scandalized giggles, and then the whole hall just erupted into laughter.

__

This doesn't happen to me, I'm supposed to be the one laughing, they're not supposed to be laughing at me!

It's not my bloody fucking fault, and isn't this what you all fucking wanted? Isn't it? Condemn Voldemort, condemn your father and your name and your heritage and your whole fucking life and –

- and we'll laugh at you and stare at you and treat you like you're lower than a stinking heap of shit because we don't really fucking give a damn, because we don't really want you to be on our side, we like it much better when we can hate you, we like it much better when you're a Malfoy and we can all think we're better than you because you think you're better than us -

- and I did, I did think I was better, how many times did I do this to Longbottom or Granger or some other stupid Mudblood because . . because .

. . because it used to be funny. It used to just be funny.

"Fuck you!" Draco shouted, pulling himself stiffly to protesting knees. The laughter wavered. There was a circle of unoccupied stone around him, and another just a little ways back down the hall, around his traitorous shoe. "It's not bloody funny! Just fuck the whole fucking lot of you!"

The laughter died, and suddenly everyone in the hall found somewhere else to look and a reason they needed to be moving along – though not before someone kicked his shoe between the railings at the edge of the hall and sent it toppling downward toward the dungeons.

"Here, have the fucking other one too!" Draco hollered at the back of the snickering boy's head, ripping his left shoe off and hurling it away. The boy and his little group of friends all ducked, turned and gave Draco vaguely frightened looks, and scurried off. The shoe hit the bottom corner of a canvas, causing a crowd of painted nymphs to shriek and scatter. Then it dropped to the floor, teetered on one edge a moment, and settled right-side up.

The laces untied and loosened themselves, flopping neatly to each side, ready for it to be put on again – apparently that part of the charm still worked.

"Just fuck you!" Draco exclaimed to the near-empty hall, and he wasn't entirely certain if he was shouting at the retreating backs of the other students or at his patiently waiting shoe. He pulled himself to his stocking-clad feet, slung his books back over his shoulder, and stomped determinedly off down the stairs after Ginny Weasley, leaving the shoe behind.

"Maybe I should just wait here," Ron suggested uneasily to the back of Blaise's head, as she peered into the Slytherin common room.

"Don't be stupid," Blaise said, turning around and smiling brightly at him in a way that was clearly supposed to take the sting from her words. In Ron's opinion, it didn't quite work – he'd still been called stupid, but by a cheerfully smiling and very pretty girl, which just made him feel nervously queasy in addition to stupid. "All clear, come on." She disappeared through the stone doorway, and Ron followed along glumly with a sense of impending doom.

"Common room," Blaise announced with a shrug, striding briskly ahead of him, not turning to see if he followed. "It's not much, kinda gloomy looking, but everybody's mostly quiet so it's good for – hello, Kitty."

Ron blinked, and glanced around Blaise's head towards the doorway to the Slytherin girls' dormitories. Kitty was not an actual feline, but rather a stunned-looking girl, probably a first year.

"Hi," Kitty gulped, and blinked back at Ron, hurrying around the pair of them; she kept darting glances back at Ron that suggested he was at least as frightening as a dragon and twice as hideous, until she'd made her escape into the hallway.

"Damn it," Blaise swore in a disgruntled fashion, frowning after her younger housemate.

"Think she'll go get Snape?" Ron asked worriedly. _I really should have just waited outside._

"Not likely," Blaise turned her frown on him, "It's Friday, he's got a double with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw third years right now – Kitty's not the sharpest, but I don't think she's that dumb."

"Then who were we looking out for, if Snape's got a class?" Ron asked. _She memorized Snape's schedule?_

"Delacroix, mostly, as she's got a free period right now – well, all the fourth years do, but not all the fourth years seem so personally invested in hating your sister, and you, and by extension me," Blaise explained with a shrug. "Ought to avoid Jenna Page, too, which isn't hard if you're already avoiding Delacroix – if you ever want to scare yourself, imagine Page and Goyle reproducing." She giggled.

__

Does she memorize everyone's schedule? It struck him as very Slytherin sort of thing to do, and made him all the more uncomfortably aware that he was back in the Slytherin common room without benefit of Polyjuice, following the Slytherin girl who he had been – to his continued astonishment every time the situation crossed his mind – dating for nearly a month now.

Blaise was still hovering in the doorway to the girls' dorms, grin slipping. She looked suddenly unsure and vulnerable and, Ron thought, rather pretty. _Hell, she'd look rather pretty covered in boils and wearing a burlap sack, which would be the one and only reason you're here, wouldn't it?_

Not that she's not funny now and then, and I guess she's alright to be around, for a Slytherin . . she's really not so bad . .

So this is either wrong because she's a Slytherin and I'm consorting with the bloody enemy, or it's wrong because she's really not so bad and I really don't give a fig about her one way or the other 'cept to think she's nice to look at . . though I guess I wouldn't want her to get hurt or anything . . and bloody hell, I really should have just waited outside.

"Well, I thought it was funny," Blaise said with an uncomfortable shrug. "Maybe it's funnier if you've been forced to be around them more."

"Yeah, right," Ron agreed belated. "Scary." When she just stared at him oddly, he added, "I mean, it was funny. In a scary way. Do you know everybody's schedule?"

__

I didn't mean to say that. I'm an utter bleeding moron, I really am.

"You think I'm a freak," Blaise pronounced dejectedly.

"No, I mean, I was just wondering," Ron stammered, "it's just sort of an odd – I mean, not odd, interesting –"

"It's a perfectly rational thing to do," she interrupted, cutting off his rambling, for which Ron was silently grateful. Her tone was even and her voice very quiet, almost a whisper, and a rather defensive, hurt-sounding whisper at that. _You know, I think I'd rather be screamed at. At least when Hermione's mad at you, you bloody well know it, and you don't feel all sick and awful and like you've just been stealing candy from babies and kicking puppies or something. _"It comes in handy for avoiding people, and besides, it makes me useful for something. If you're not well-connected around here, then you'd best be useful for something."

"Yeah, that's – that makes a lot of sense," Ron agreed hastily. "That's really smart." She gave him a very disbelieving look. "Really!" he insisted. "I just never thought about it before."

She just watched him for a moment, and seemed to relax, slipping back into a vaguely self-deprecatory, lopsided grin. "I am such a freak," she shook her head. "Ignore me, it's just been crazy around here, and everybody's crying all the time and giving me nasty looks, and I think it's making me jumpy. Anyway, come on."

Blaise grabbed Ron's sleeve, and he found himself dragged down a spiraling set of stairs, past several doors, and into a cheerily lit room. She glanced back at him as he tripped over a pair of shoes coming in the door, and she was still smiling, but something about it looked a little .. _disappointed?_

Like she just figured something out that she didn't really want to figure out.

She's really not so bad, I guess . .

"Oh, sorry," Blaise said, shrugging awkwardly before hopping across the clutter-strewn floor with practiced ease, "it's a bit of a mess." She stopped at a desk and began rummaging through it, tossing scrolls and quills and books to the floor.

__

Hermione would have a fit, Ron thought, as 'A History of Interspecies Conflict in Medieval Bavaria' sailed towards one of the two beds. _And how come they get only two to a room?_

"Who do you room with?" Ron asked. There were enough shoes scattered about the room to outfit a small army, and nearly as many clothes. In the interest of not turning purple and humiliating himself, he was trying very hard not to look at the disorganized heap of various lacey things that was peaking halfway out from under one of the beds.

__

Is that her bed? Does she wear stuff like – like that stuff? One of the unavoidably eye-catching garments – so frail and tiny looking Ron couldn't even guess its purpose, and found his brain in danger of shutting down completely when he tried – was vividly red and black.

"Carietta Mayhew," Blaise answered, scrunching up her nose and glancing back at him. "What're you – oh, sorry," she flushed, and kicked the fascinating garment the rest of the way under the bed.

"Oh," Ron responded dumbly. _You sound like a brain-damaged troll. _He couldn't quite force himself to focus on words rather than the infinitely more interesting conundrum of exactly what part of Blaise's body that bit of red and black lace might almost cover.

Something under the bed squeaked.

"Oh, Pidge!" Blaise exclaimed, and promptly dove under the bed. A moment later she reappeared, dark hair tousled and hanging in her face, and thrust something black and wriggling into Ron's hands.

"That's Pidge," Blaise explained before turning back to the desk, and Ron grimaced down at what was quite possibly the ugliest bat he'd ever seen. It had enormous pointed ears, and a face that resembled a pug dog who'd run into a wall, fallen several stories and then been stepped on. It was tasting the air with a very worm-like pink tongue. Ron wasn't sure if it was as unimpressed with him as he was with it, or if it was just incapable of making a pleasant expression.

"He's – um –" Ron tried to think of something, anything complimentary to say about the creature. _Why in the hell would you name a bat Pidge?_

And she memorized Snape's schedule and that's just creepy, it really is.

"She," Blaise corrected.

"Oh, right," Ron agreed hastily, feeling very much on the verge of disaster ever time he opened his mouth. "She's – friendly," he finished lamely, as the bat had decided to stop struggling and was now just glaring up at him indignantly. _Well, it's not biting me, anyway._

"She's a Virginia Big-Eared Bat," Blaise explained, still rummaging through the desk. "They're from America, very rare, hardly any left in the wild – I was thinking I ought to breed her, what do you think?"

"Uh," said Ron.

"Got it!" announced Blaise, brandishing a scroll. "You know, if I didn't do the homework ahead of time, I wouldn't lose it – but anyway, ready to go? Oh, you can just put her down anywhere, she gets loose all the time," she added, when she turned around and saw Ron still holding the bat rather gingerly. He promptly let it go, and with a few irritated chitters and a flutter of membranous wings, Pidge disappeared back under the bed.

"Weasel-girl!" Draco reached out to grab Ginny's shoulder, "are you bloody deaf? I've been –"

She spun, one hand clutching something tightly to her chest, the other jabbing her wand just under his chin. He skidded to a sudden halt, dropping his books and throwing his hands up. The books hit the floor with a thud that echoed in the empty dungeon hall; two floors above them, Draco could hear the distant buzz of voices, continuing on unconcerned. Her hand shook, and there was no recognition in her eyes.

"Right, no sudden touching," Draco swallowed loudly, past the lump in his throat. "Forgot that. Sorry." She just stared, and her eyes flickered ever so slightly, tiny movements like reading words in very small print, only she was looking at his face. _She wouldn't actually do anything too . . permanent. She wouldn't –_

- but if it's not her?

She blinked, and dropped her wand. It fell end over end, hit the floor with a hollow wooden ringing, rolled towards the inside wall and stopped. Ginny sucked in a breath as though she'd been underwater for hours.

"Don't do that," she admonished shakily, and bent to retrieve her wand. "That was very, very stupid. I could have – just don't do it, okay?"

"You weren't at breakfast," Draco said, not knowing how to respond. "I couldn't find you yesterday."

Ginny stood again, frowning as though his words had surprised her, tucking her wand away. Her left hand still cradled something to her chest; it looked like a small book. "Oh," she murmured, considering. Wand safely stowed in a pocket beside a roll of parchment and several quills, her right hand moved to join the left, two hands curling around the black-bound volume protectively. "I guess – I guess I didn't notice."

"I was looking for you, after that bitch Delacroix spilled her juice on you," he said. "I talked to dead girl for a bit."

She twitched, and one thumb stroked the leather of the book, a faint nervous movement as if seeking reassurance. It made Draco uneasy and faintly embarrassed, as if he were intruding, accidentally glimpsing something very private and vaguely obscene. _But it's just a stupid book. _Something about it tickled at the edges of his memory.

__

It looks familiar.

"She told me," Ginny answered, and then gave her head a little shake as if trying to clear it. "I mean, don't call her that."

"Why?" Draco shrugged and tried to sneer, but it felt wrong; he had the disturbing sensation of being on stage and having forgotten his lines. "She's a girl, and she's dead." Ginny still held the book pressed tightly against her, just under her breasts. _She's not entirely titless after all, I guess. Guess she just wears cast-off old boys' clothes too much. _Her thumb was still tracing the binding. _And she's going to notice that you're staring at her chest very soon, but . . what the hell should I be remembering about that book?_

She's being very strange . . why's she still clutching it like that, she put her wand away, she's not startled anymore . . she seemed to notice that his eyes were not on her face, and flushed, shoving the black-bound book into her pocket with the quill and parchment and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Because it would upset her," Ginny protested, spots of bright color still adorning her cheeks, eyes darting awkwardly between his face and the floor. _Don't do that, _he wanted to yell at her. _Don't fucking do that, don't let me embarrass you, yell at me, tell me I'm a pervert, don't - don't let me do that to you. _"And she's –" she stopped, and for a moment her eyes went distant again, unseeing.

"Weasel?" Draco inquired nervously, and she seemed to jerk back to the present, blinking and giving her head a determined shake. "She's my friend," Ginny pronounced firmly.

Draco felt rather as if something chittering and many-legged was crawling up and down his spine. _She's worse. She's hardly here._

Should have found her sooner, shouldn't have fucking misplaced her for a whole day -

Found her and done what? Made fun of her friends and stared at her tits? What in the hell do you think you're doing?

Something, I'm fucking doing something, I don't care what, don't care, not going to just watch her bleed – not going to throw up on my slippers, get knocked out by a house elf on the train and don't – just don't go home.

She told me not to go home. Not to go home to my father, who broke her – who was going to fetch her –

"I have to get to class," Ginny said into the awkward silence, shaking her head again and frowning. "I guess - I guess I'll see you later." She turned to go.

"Hold on a minute!" Draco hurried after her; he almost reached out for her shoulder again, but checked himself before he actually touched her. "Where were you yesterday?"

She ignored him, except to pick up her pace.

"Hey Weasel, I'm talking to you," he insisted, wincing at the sharpness of the stone floor through threadbare socks.

"Go away," she returned shortly, her voice catching ever so slightly. "I have to go to class."

"I'd rather not, thanks," he answered sharply. "Something's wrong with you." She gave him a sidelong look. "Well, more wrong than yesterday, I mean."

"It's not more wrong," she argued, turning back away and frowning down at the floor in front of her. "It's - you're not wearing any shoes," she blurted out. "Why aren't you wearing shoes?"

"Bugger my shoes," Draco snapped, resisting the urge to curl his toes and try to pull his stocking feet under his robes. _And then possibly just curl up and die of shame. Well, fuck that. Just fuck that. _"What were you going to say before that?"

"I have to go to class," Ginny insisted, a little desperately, hurrying around a corner.

"Bugger your fucking class, too," he pressed. "What were you going to say? Weasel -"

"What happened to your shoes?" she retorted.

"Who the hell fucking cares about my shoes?" Draco snarled.

"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, then I don't either," Ginny returned neatly, turning sharply and ducking in the next doorway to the right.

"You can't just -" Draco started to protest, stomping determinedly through the doorway after her; he stopped just inside the door, nearly tripping over Cho Chang's carefully stacked books. She turned and gave him a reproving glare; at least a dozen more sets of eyes swiveled in his direction. Professor Rosenberg paused in the middle of demonstrating something that seemed to involve a broken chair leg; in the front row, Granger gave him an unreadable glance before looking quickly away, her spine suddenly ram-rod straight in her chair as she turned her back to him. Potter frowned at him in a puzzled, assessing sort of way; Weasley - the older, more annoying, not-Ginny Weasley - scowled. Blaise Zabini just gave him a quick, rather distracted sort of glance, smiled briefly at Ginny, and then proceeded to ignore them all in favor of doodling something on the edge of her parchment.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Ginny muttered, slipping into an empty seat towards the middle of the room, between Neville Longbottom and Colin Creevy, who was fidgeting with a dial on his ever-present camera.

"I just know you're not bothering my sister again, Malfoy," Ron Weasley said in a threatening tone. Zabini turned towards him, opening her mouth as if to say something, but instead just bit her lip and looked resigned.

"Yeah, what -" one of the Weasley twins began to add - Draco couldn't tell them apart, probably because he'd never really cared which was which. The other twin was on the verge of speaking, and Angelina Johnson was glowering at him.

"That's enough," Rosenberg interrupted, and both twins' mouths snapped shut, though they continued to glare. Johnson had her wand balanced between her fingers and was tapping either end on her desktop very pointedly. "Hello, Draco," Rosenberg went on. "We're in the middle of class. You'll need to take a seat, or leave."

Colin leaned over to whisper something to Ginny, and her eyes darted briefly back to Draco before settling again on a patch of floor to the front of her desk. She took out quill and parchment, the latter rustling loudly; she didn't, Draco noticed, take out the little leather-bound book. _How in the hell, exactly, did I get into this? Things like this just do not fucking happen to me._

Things like this didn't happen to me before.

You don't laugh at a Malfoy.

Colin Creevy was still whispering determinedly to Ginny, but he seemed to be having no better luck in getting her to answer than Draco had. Creevy was short, skinny, and in Draco's opinion looked rather like a flat-chested girl, but he still managed to make Ginny look tiny and frail. Potter was saying something to Granger in hushed tones; she shook her head rapidly in the negative, sharp jerking motions from side to side. Whatever Granger had said that Draco hadn't heard, Ginny had - and it was making her shoulders hunch just a little more. Oversized hand-me-down robes draped sharply from the peaks of them. _She looks like she could just fade away; like you could break her by looking at her wrong._

My father did that. Broke her. You don't laugh at a Malfoy, you don't raid Malfoy Manor and you don't put bills before the Wizengamot that might inconvenience a Malfoy, not if you'd like to keep the same number of children you presently have, not if you like them sane - of course, not that it really matters, if one of them happens to be useful -

- they deduced that the sacrifice of a witch or wizard would be necessary -

- because it wouldn't work with the Muggles, Granger's mum and dad, just Muggles, didn't have souls but then where does she get hers - how do Mudbloods ever even happen, doesn't make any sense, and it didn't matter, did it? Because they would have used my mother - used Weasel-girl, used Pansy - I used Pansy, I never really gave a shit about her and now she's just fucking dead, fucking dead, that's sorta funny -

- nothing's funny, nothing is fucking funny at all, nothing is ever going to be fucking funny ever again and somebody should pay -

"Draco?" Rosenberg prompted him, shooting a quelling glare around her quietly buzzing classroom as she did.

"This is that vampire-slaying class, isn't it?" Draco asked, watching Ginny push a strand of tomato-soup hair behind one pale, nearly translucent shell of an ear. Longbottom kicked Creevy in the shin under Ginny's desk. That earned Longbottom a puzzled glance from the younger Gryffindor, but Colin stopped pestering Ginny. _Which is good, because I was going to have to hex something vital off of him if he didn't. _Ginny's brothers - all three of them, plus Angelina - all seemed too busy staring daggers at Draco to have noticed. Cho gave an impatient sigh and smoothed out her parchment noisily; Roger Davies glanced backward at the clock, which said _if you're not in class, you're late!_

"Well, sort of," Professor Rosenberg answered, looking a little nervous at the Ravenclaws' impatience. "There's more to -"

"You teach how to kill evil things," Draco interrupted her. Cho began tapping her quill against the side of her inkpot. Ginny turned to frown worriedly back at him. _"What are you doing?" _her look seemed to ask, and it was - as so many of her looks seemed to be recently - a little frightened, with something watching and considering coldly just behind the fear.

__

All your fault, Father. Ginny with he-who-is-a-fucking-little-Mudblood-shit-his-own-fucking-self in her head, and dead Pansy who I slept with - and why do I think of it like that, why don't I just think I just fucked her, it's not like I cared - not like I cared and now she's dead, and my mother's dead, and I'm here and I'm alive and I haven't any stupid goddamned blood fucking shoes, and you need to pay for this, Father. You need to bleed for this. I'm going to come fetch you, Father, how's that? How'd you fucking like that, how'd you like to be on the other side of it - how'd you like this side of things -

- because this side bloody fucking sucks and it hurts and it pinches and I fucking hate it and I fucking hate you.

"Well, yes," Rosenberg agreed hesitantly.

"Good," Draco pronounced, dropping his books behind the desk next to Cho Chang, who jumped and nearly upset her inkpot at the sudden noise. Draco sat. "I think I'll stay, then, because I'm going to kill my father."

There was a sudden, utter silence, in which the sound of Granger's quill snapping in her clenched fist was very, very loud.

"What," Severus asked doubtfully, "is a guidance counselor?" His gaze was still on the parchment before him, brow furrowed, quill busily slashing away at what looked like the fourth years' assignment. In the dimness of a few sputtering candles, his hair obscured most of his face.

"I'm gonna take that as a no," Willow's shoulders slumped; her head felt ready to burst, the ache settling mostly behind her eyes and making her wonder just how much she'd miss them if she accidentally flattened them in an effort to push back against the pressure in her skull. Figuring she might miss them a lot, she kept her hands tucked into her robes and tried not to grimace too much at the pain - grimacing just made the ache extend down into her jaw.

"Well?" Severus pressed, his quill making a harsh, high scratching sound that seemed to be grating directly on her throbbing sinuses.

"Well what?" she frown, confused. _Let's not ask for too much in the way of higher brain function now, 'cause, that just ain't happening._

"What is a guidance counselor?"

"Oh," she sighed. "It's just somebody for the students to talk to when they're confused or disturbed or can't fill out their college applications or, you know, are homicidal."

"I take it that Mr. Not-Malfoy's pronouncement disturbed you," Severus commented, tossing the marked essay away with a derisive sneer - as if he could intimidate the words on parchment - and tearing into the next, finding something deserving of a slash of bright red ink in the very first line. _He keeps saying that .. Not-Malfoy. I think it might be better if he just called him Malfoy, rather than calling him Not-Malfoy, if he can't call him Draco, 'cause that's just like saying "see how I am grudgingly and yet wittily acknowledging your childish tantrums" every time he says his freakin' name._

Though, I suppose, it's sorta more appropriate than just calling him Draco, I think, because it's not like he lacks a last name, it's more like he wants to be the antithesis of his family name, so . . Not-Malfoy.

Huh. He's actually being respectful, while he sounds like he's being an ass.

But does it count as not being an ass if the object of his not-ass-like wit probably doesn't get it?

Well, maybe he does get it. Maybe I just don't get it. Except I did. Get it, just now. Sort of.

My head hurts.

"He said he was going to kill his father!" Willow exclaimed, exhausted and exasperated.

"Yes, well, you've never met the boy's father," Severus commented dryly.

"But he's human," Willow argued, then paused a beat. "He is human, isn't he? Draco's father."

"In the strictest sense of the word," Severus allowed. "That man has done things that -" he paused, gave the essay in front of him a particularly vicious scowl, and scratched a harsh, wet red line across the remainder of the text before flipping it unceremoniously over onto the already-marked pile, not even giving the ink a chance to dry.

"And what high crimes and misdemeanors did that essay commit?" Willow quipped, unable to resist. He shot her a rather nasty glare, to which she shrugged unaffectedly. "Sorry. Long day. Brain is mush."

"Something you have in common with the author of the aforementioned essay," Severus returned.

"They're just fourth years," Willow suggested. "You could, theoretically, give them a tiny bit of a break."

"Third, actually," Severus corrected.

"You're making my point," she argued.

"Only if I cared," he retorted, but one side of his mouth quirked upward as he said it, and his eyes sought out her face from under the curtain of his hair. Willow wound her way around his overburdened desk and perched herself on the arm of his chair.

"You care," Willow said, mockingly accusing, leaning back against his shoulder and letting her aching head fall to the back of the chair. "You're fooling nobody, buster."

"On the contrary, I'm fooling a great many people, and you are impeding my ability to write legibly and will shortly be cutting off the circulation to my arm," he said sourly.

"Deal with it," she snipped, smiling faintly. He grunted, shifted his arm slightly so that she fell into a dip just beneath his shoulder, and continued hacking away at his third year students' essays. "You'll talk to Draco?" she pressed, after a comfortably silent moment.

"I'll speak to him, but I doubt you'd approve the tone of the conversation," Severus responded.

"Something like 'yay for patricide, here's how to not get caught'?" Willow guessed.

"Something along those lines, yes," he responded, and though she couldn't see his face, she could clearly picture him grimacing, "though I do not believe it will involve the word 'yay'."

"Is 'yay' a word?" she asked.

"Improbable as this may seem, I've never really considered the question before," he said, tone dripping sarcasm.

"I really don't think I care if Draco does kill his father, so long as he doesn't get all emotionally damaged by it," Willow confessed. "Does that make me a really, really awful person?"

"I think it makes you astonishingly sane," Severus answered.

"I'm being serious," Willow insisted.

"So am I," he answered. "If there were ever a man alive who deserved to be killed, preferably in some ignominious and horribly painful manner, by his only begotten son and heir, dying with the knowledge that his progeny will never honor his -"

"You are getting way too into this description, and it's disturbing me," Willow interrupted, brow furrowing.

"You don't know the man," Severus repeated.

"I don't think you can kill your own father and not get messed up by it," Willow insisted worriedly. "I don't think you can even hate him enough to want to, and not be messed up by it. I'd like to think you could if he was a bad enough guy, and you really had to, like to save the world or something -" Severus gave a derisive snort, which Willow pointedly ignored - "but I don't think so."

"Have you considered the possibility that not being "messed up", as you so quaintly put it, is not one of Mr. Not-Malfoy's options?" he suggested.

"Yes," she sighed. "But that's just .. ugh."

"So much of life is," he agreed, and jotted some scathing, scarlet comment on the essay before him.

"My head hurts," she finally conceded, and his body shifted under her shoulders; she turned her head and found his eyes inches from hers, faintly frowning, the tip of his rather oversized nose nearly brushing her own.

"You should have said something before," he chastised. "Would you like a headache potion?"

"I'd like a day where I don't have to think about this stuff," she sighed again, leaning her head into the crook of his neck. "Also where there's nobody bleeding on my clothes. And nobody dying, or breaking up or going insane or otherwise not having a good time. And also where my head doesn't hurt, and I don't get any nosebleeds and there's no shakiness and . . and the house elves remember I don't like pumpkin juice and they make that really good pea soup," she finished whimsically. "That would be a perfect day."

"Perfection is an impossibility and thus a fool's daydream," Severus pronounced, but his arm had shrugged its way out from under her shoulder, tucking her against his chest and allowing his hand to reach up behind her and massage her temples.

"Nah," Willow insisted. "It's a good daydream. Unrealistic, but good." She tilted her head up, trying to look into his face, but was rewarded only with a spectacular view of his nostrils. She stifled a giggle, and lay her head back down. "What's your perfect day?"

"I've never bothered to waste my time contemplating it," he answered mulishly, though his thumb was playing idly with the wisps of hair just above her ear.

"So contemplate it," she pressed. He didn't respond. "Half a day?" she wheedled. "How about a morning?" When he still didn't answered, she sighed, and gave up. _Oh well. Guess he wouldn't be much for "anywhere but here", either._

"I would wake up, early, at first light," he said after a long, softly quiet moment. "I would not be tired."

"Okay," Willow answered in a hushed tone, feeling on the verge of deep waters. _I could drown in that voice. _"Well, that's a good start."


	29. Just a Game

Title: Just a Game

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: Viktor's visit, and the first Quidditch match of the new term.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - - It occasionally contains fic-related ramblings.

"You're sure we're allowed to be here?" Ron asked uneasily, ducking into the box seat in the first row of the Quidditch stadium stands. Blaise was already inside, jerking open the curtain and letting in a blast of frigid air. She seemed perfectly at ease with the arrangement, as if she sat in the best seats all the time. _Which I suppose she probably does._

"Of course I'm sure, I asked Dumbledore just yesterday," Hermione answered, holding the door open for them. "It was his idea."

"You must thank him again," Viktor said, rather fervently, casting a nervous glance behind him. Several dozen sets of eyes blinked back at him. There was a chorus of giggles, and the stands creaked and groaned with the shuffling and shoving of many bodies all trying for a better look. He pulled his cloak a little tighter around his hunched shoulders and followed Ron inside so quickly he nearly tripped over him.

Hermione slammed the door firmly behind him, muttering something that sounded like "shameless harpies" under her breath.

"I didn't mean you," Ron amended, wondering why he'd thought the box might be just a little warmer than the usual stadium seating. "I meant us," he nodded at Blaise, who was leaning on her elbows on the ledge at the front of the box and craning her neck downward in an alarming manner. Ron stood back, noticing with equal unease that the seats appeared to be upholstered in plush velvet.

"You're my guests," Hermione pronounced firmly. "The box seats four, there's no point in wasting it."

__

Right, no point in wasting the best velvet-lined seats. He watched Blaise tuck a flyaway strand of dark hair behind an ear that had gone red with the cold. _Is this what she's used to?_

"Thank you again," Blaise said, turning and smiling at both Hermione and Viktor before leaving the window and settling into the seat nearest the door. Ron had been vaguely worried that Blaise might be a bit too impressed with Viktor – _that she might be as bad as those nutters outside, actually, all having seizures over him._

She doesn't seem impressed at all.

If Viktor bloody Krum doesn't impress her, what the bloody hell does?

Not that he's really that impressive. He's just some bloke who's good at Quidditch. He walks like a duck and he snores.

And she's just way too bloody used to all of this. Box seats with velvet cushions and famous Quidditch players, right, nothing special. If you're richer than the bloody queen and you get reflecting pools and new cloaks and jewelry all for the same Christmas and your parents promise to send you to America for your birthday next summer to study bats, then I suppose not much is a big deal.

And I don't know when her birthday is. I think I'm supposed to know that. I'm probably supposed to get her something, too.

What in the bloody hell do you get someone like that?

Maybe Fred or George would lend me a few galleons ..

"You're welcome," Hermione smiled back at Blaise; they were both being very formal and very polite, but it seemed to Ron like they were almost enjoying it.

__

Like they're playing at being society ladies or something. Bloody hell.

Blaise turned to Ron then, still smiling – _still way too pretty to be smiling at me like that – _and patted the seat next to her. He sat down uneasily, unable to stop picturing how he was crushing the velvet. To his knowledge, there was one item, and one item only, made of material this fine in his house, and it was the shawl his mother had worn at her wedding. If he sat on that, he was fairly sure he'd be drawn and quartered.

"You are cold?" he heard Viktor say, and turned to see Hermione suppressing a shiver as they took their seats, Hermione against the far wall and Viktor next to Ron.

"Just fingers and toes, mostly," Hermione shrugged. "I won't notice once the game starts."

"Here," Viktor insisted, pulling off his heavy woolen mittens and shoving them at her.

"I have gloves," she frowned, holding up her hands and showing off the items in question – which appeared to be leather, and lined with something fuzzy that looked too soft to be wool. _Muggle stuff, I guess._

"But you are still cold." Viktor took the opportunity to pull a mitten onto one of her hands, right over top of her gloves.

"I'm sure I'll survive it," Hermione protested, flushing, and trying to hide her other hand away. "Don't be ridiculous, you're going to freeze -" she cut off with an indignant yelp as Viktor's now bare hands went searching under her cloak for the hand she'd hidden. There was a moment of giggling and tussling and argument in Bulgarian, during with Ron scowled furiously and resolutely refused to look back at Blaise to see what she thought of the display.

"It does not seem so cold to me," Viktor pronounced with a shrug, in English, triumphantly pulling the other mitten onto Hermione's captured hand. She scowled, but didn't look truly angry, and she was still blushing. "If there was a day like this in the middle of winter, at Durmstrang, everyone would be outside. No one would be wearing their heavy cloaks, even, it would seem so warm."  
"So what you're saying is that you're all crazy," Blaise suggested. Ron glanced back at her in spite of himself, in time to see her grinning at the pair before sticking her own hands in her armpits and shivering, tossing her head so that her hair fell forward over her ears.  
"I can't even move my fingers," Hermione protested, wiggling her fingers inside Viktor's mittens; she looked like her hands had been hit with an engorgement charm, but she also looked rather pleased.  
Ron looked at his own hand-knit mittens. They were a little too small, and left about an inch of his wrist bare between where the mittens ended and the too-short sleeves of his hand-me-down sweater began.  
"You want my scarf?" he offered Blaise, hoping that didn't sound too pathetic. She was watching the pitch intently now, and didn't respond.  
"Your hands are going to freeze," Hermione fussed at Viktor, trying to fold both of his much larger hands between her own, and then seeming at a loss as to where to put them.  
"Really, I am not cold," Viktor insisted.  
"I think that's Delacroix," Blaise pronounced, leaning even farther forward, squinting at the green-clad specks that were the Slytherin team, hovering at the entrance to their locker. "Where'd you put the Omniculars?"  
"I thought you had them," said Ron, who could clearly picture her Omniculars lying on the foot of her bed, atop a pile of clean laundry and next to a book that had featured a barely-clad and busily groping witch and wizard on the cover. He was beginning to be vaguely terrified of Blaise's dorm, in ways that had nothing to do with it being Slytherin territory.  
"I thought you did," she turned and frowned at him, scrunching up her nose, which was bright red with the cold. "Damn it, we're not going to be able to see a thing! Aren't you cold?" Her brow creased further in puzzlement at the wadded-up scarf he was holding out to her.  
"I thought -" he began, but was cut off by Hermione yelping as she was grabbed under the arms and hoisted onto Viktor's knees; he then took her hands and positioned them crossways around her waist, before sticking his own hands into her sleeves, leaving his arms around her.  
"There," he said firmly, setting his chin down on her shoulder and squinting through her hair. "My hands are covered."  
"We'll get in trouble!" Hermione protested squeakily, freeing one hand and trying to brush her wild hair behind her ears. The back of her hand collided with Viktor's nose. "Oh, I'm sorry -"  
"No one is looking at us," Viktor argued with a shrug, blinking and sniffling a little as if trying not to sneeze, while Hermione twisted around and tried rather ineffectually to gather her hair out of his face.  
That wasn't entirely true, Ron noticed; Blaise was watching them rather wistfully, now that her attention had been drawn away from the new Slytherin team.  
"Nah, it's not that cold," Ron muttered, though he didn't think she was paying any attention to him, and stuffed the scarf away under his heavy cloak. The tips of his ears felt in danger of freezing off.

"It was very good of you," Minerva McGonagall said in a very prim voice, "to allow the quarter of my team that you've put in detention to have the day off in order to play."

"Of course," Severus responded evenly. "I wouldn't want to give anyone the opportunity to insinuate that Slytherin had been given an unfair advantage."

"A pity that reasoning couldn't have extended to allowing them to attend practices," McGonagall snipped back.

"A pity your students can't control their hormones," Severus retorted.

"How exactly did you happen to catch them, in the middle of Professor Rosenberg's class, anyway, Severus?" McGonagall asked in obviously feigned bewilderment.

Willow ducked her head down into her cloak to hide her grin. _Do they know they sound like ten-year-olds?_

Severus scowled, and fortuitously, the announcer chose that moment to introduce the Slytherin team.

That is Delacroix," Blaise pronounced, as Slytherin's new Seeker took a lap around the stadium, to much cheering from the Slytherin section. Blaise didn't cheer – something else Ron had worried about, considering they were squarely in the middle of the Gryffindor stands. "And that's – shit," she muttered suddenly.

"What?" Ron asked – he'd never heard her use that word before. She said 'damn' all the time, but somehow that seemed more ladylike, more appropriate. _Though the books she reads aren't all too proper either._

"That's Montague and Avery," Blaise said. "The new Chaser and Beater – Montague's brother was killed and Avery's father's missing. I don't know why Delacroix, unless she's actually good – but girls, all girls."

"So?" Ron asked.

"Did you know about this?" McGonagall was suddenly hissing in a low tone, pitched under the roar of the crowd. She had gone ramrod straight in her seat as the new Slytherin players were announced. Severus had not visibly reacted, but sitting pressed into his side for warmth – _and just 'cause it's kinda nice and cozy and such – _Willow had felt him tense.

"I had nothing to do with it," Severus responded, tone carefully unemotional, though he was clapping enthusiastically for his House team. It made something in Willow's stomach flip over, seeing the discordance between action and emotion. _Like Buffy in Slayer-mode. Only creepier. Or maybe just creepier because I was never dating Buffy. _"Bletchley held try-outs."

__

What is going on, and why am I thinking it's not of the good? Willow glanced back and forth between the pitch and their suddenly tense, closed faces, feeling disoriented and uneasy. _It's just a game, right?_

McGonagall seemed on the verge of speech, but pressed her lips shut and said nothing, frowning in clear frustration.

"No," Severus shook his head, apparently answering the unasked question. "They're .. careful, but no."

"I think that's worse," McGonagall ground out; the Slytherins were hovering to their side of the pitch now, as the Gryffindors took the air. The cheering was louder, and more dispersed throughout the stands. She clapped, distractedly. "If that's just . . careful . . I think that's very much worse."

"Yes," Severus pronounced, "It is."

"Could somebody tell me what's wrong?" Willow asked, trying to sound casual and not draw attention.

"The last time there were girls on the Slytherin team was 1944," Blaise said. Viktor turned towards her, looking surprised; so did Hermione.

"Why?" Viktor asked, sounding puzzled, while Hermione said, "You've read 'Hogwarts, A History?'" and looked vaguely excited.

"So what about it?" Ron asked, then heard the Gryffindor team announced, and stood to clap and cheer as Harry zoomed by, followed closely by Angelina, Alicia and Katie, then Fred and George, and finally Seamus Finnegan.

"Why are there not girls on the Slytherin team? Or were not?" Viktor was asking Hermione as Ron sat back down.

"Because – because they're so traditionalist," Hermione said, and Ron recognized the look on her face that said a light was sparking somewhere back in her brain. "Oh! Oh, that's not good at all."

"You see?" Blaise asked, and Hermione nodded.

"I do not see," Viktor frowned.

"Me either," Ron seconded. "What?"

"There are no girls on the Slytherin team, ever, because Slytherin is the pureblood House, the House of tradition, the old ways -" Hermione began to explain.

"So they're breaking with tradition," Ron shrugged. "Isn't that good?"

"They're not breaking with tradition," Blaise sighed. "They're defending the home-front."

"You are certain?" Viktor's frown deepened. "You are certain they would not just put girls on the team if they are better? Perhaps none of the boys who tried out were very good -" Blaise was shaking her head.

"They'd put house elves on the team before they'd put girls, if it wasn't wartime," she insisted.

"But it's not wartime," Ron argued. "There was just a big raid, that's all, we're not at war."

"That's the point," Hermione snapped, watching the two teams take their positions with more interest than Ron could ever remember her showing in a Quidditch game. "They're saying that as far as they're concerned, we are."

Draco jerked the last tap wide open; every showerhead in the entire bathroom was spraying forth scalding water at full force. He watched with satisfaction as the room filled up with great billows of steam.

__

Also they drown out the stupid fucking crowd at the stupid fucking Quidditch game.

Not that you could really hear them down in the dungeons anyway. A bit out in the hall, but . . well, now I definitely can't hear them.

I am such a pathetic fucking wanker it's not even funny. It's not even funny at all.

He closed his eyes and stuck his head under one of the spouts, feeling the hot water pounding down against his skull.

__

I could just go flying, I suppose.

On a school broom. That barely even counts as flying, they're so fucking slow, and old, and pitiful. It'd be like walking – it'd be like fucking crawling – just without the ground quite so nearby.

And nobody would be watching. No cheering crowds. No House banners.

Not that I'd want anybody to see me on a school broom.

But I could fly. I could fly better than fucking Potter, and it's not my fault I made a lousy Seeker, never wanted to be Seeker anyway, Chasers do all the fancy flying, but oh no, Seekers are the ones who get the attention, can't have a Malfoy being anything but the Seeker –

"You're wasting an awful lot of water," commented a high, nasal voice.

Draco yelped, blinked, yelped again and swore as the sharp spray of water stung his eyes. He stumbled forward out of the stream rubbing his eyes. When he could focus, he saw a translucent head – just a head – peering up out of one of the drains.

"That is just fucking creepy!" he pointed and shouted accusingly at Myrtle, then belated remembered he was entirely naked, and yanked a shower curtain in front of his waist. "What in the bloody fucking hell are you doing?"

"You swear too much," Myrtle commented blandly. "Oh, don't worry, I can't see anything," she added, and sounded a little disappointed. "There's far too much steam."

"Good!" Draco snapped, feeling inordinately annoyed at the way his voice cracked as he did. _I will not let some pathetic Hufflepuff ghost know she spooked me!_

Though bloody hell, that is creepy . . heads just shouldn't stick up out of the floor like that and people shouldn't talk when you think you're alone in the fucking shower.

"The Ravenclaws are much more interesting," she confided, floating the rest of the way out of the drain and blending in with the steam in a very disconcerting manner. "They're so serious all the time."

"And that makes them more fun?" Draco asked incredulously, clutching his shower curtain and wondering why in Merlin's name he was letting himself be drawn into conversation.

"Oh yes," Myrtle giggled, a grating nasal sound. "They take very quick showers. There's hardly any steam at all."

Draco just stared, at a loss for words.

"What?" Myrtle snapped irritably. "Well what would you do with your time then, if you were stuck here forever and ever and nobody paid you any attention at all and you knew you were never, ever, ever going to get to do any of the things living people just expect -"

"I think I'd spend the rest of my life following Potter around humiliating him at inopportune moments," Draco mused, cutting off the ghost's tirade, as it was starting to spiral up towards a dangerous pitch that, last he'd heard it, had indicated incipient hysterics. "Or maybe Weasley. I think Weasley's worse than Potter lately," he amended, thinking a little uneasily that Potter had seemed almost human, at his hearing. He squashed the thought ruthlessly. "I could follow Weasley around for the rest of his life and make sure he never, ever got laid."

"No you couldn't," Myrtle sighed.

"Why not?" Draco asked indignantly. "You asked what I'd do, after you got done saying how you like sneaking a peek at Ravenclaw naughty bits -"

"No, I meant you couldn't do that because the Ministry wouldn't let you," Myrtle explained, sounding wistful. Draco blinked.

"That's what you were doing, to get bound to a bathroom?" Draco guessed incredulously. _Myrtle? Pathetic whining Moaning Myrtle?_

"Not the – the getting laid part," Myrtle grumbled, and her cheeks turned a slightly darker silver that Draco interpreted as a blush. "Just the humiliation part. They get very particular about that."

"Who?" Draco asked, fascinated in spite of himself.

"None of your business," Myrtle said primly. "Anyway, you're distracting me."

"I'm distracting you?" Draco protested.

"Yes, you are," she said, nodding firmly and glowering. "I came here for a very specific reason, you know." Draco tugged the shower curtain a little closer. "And I've been waiting just forever for you, it's been dreadfully boring, especially with all the steam, and – why don't you shower in the morning like everyone else, anyway?"

"None of your bloody business," Draco snapped, tugging the shower curtain all the way up to his chest so that he could cross his arms.

"OooOOooh, I found something that bothers you," Myrtle sing-songed, gliding closer in an alarmingly predatory way. "Don't you want to be in the shower when everyone else is? Are they mean to you?"

"Maybe I just don't want to see all their ugly pimpled asses," Draco retorted. "Not everyone is a pervert, you know."

"Do they steal your soap?" Myrtle taunted. "Do they steal your robe and make you run back to your room naked?"

"Fuck off," Draco snapped, yanked the curtain off its hooks and began to walk away with it, leaving the water running.

"Oh, they do, they do!" Myrtle crowed triumphantly.

"I said sod the fuck off!" Draco shouted back over his shoulder at her, stomping out of the showers and into the main part of the bathroom, leaving a sodden trail behind him. The few hooks that had remained caught in the curtain clinked on the tile. "Go wank off at some Ravenclaws!"

"They used to steal my glasses all the time," Myrtle announced quietly to his retreating back. He stopped, hearing the resigned misery in her voice, and feeling it pluck an unfamiliar chord somewhere down in his gut. He hated it instantly, and hated himself for feeling it, hated the memory of all the times he'd stolen something of Neville Longbottom's and hated the strange new twisting of his insides at the thought that he'd made someone else feel this way.

__

It was funny. It was just fucking funny, and I don't know why it's not funny anymore, and nothing is fucking funny anymore, and nothing makes any fucking sense – it's your fault Father, it's all your fault –

"I don't know why they did it," Myrtle went on. "At least you know why. At least you meant to be a freak."

"I did not mean to be a fucking freak!" Draco shouted, whirling on her. His feet caught in the shower curtain and he teetered precariously for a moment before catching his balance. "It's all my father's fault, it's all his fault and I'm going to kill him!"

"Oh," said Myrtle, backing up a ways and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Going to tell me how deranged I am now?" Draco demanded.

"Of course not," Myrtle frowned, as if puzzled as to why he would ever think that. "You father's the one who hurt Ginny. I think you should kill him. Can I help?"

"No, you can't help!" Draco exclaimed in exasperation. "It's not the sort of thing you want help with!"

"You'd let Ginny help," Myrtle accused glumly.

"No, I wouldn't!" Draco was beginning to feel rather exhausted, and a bit like banging his head against the nearest wall. "I'd keep her as far away from it as fucking possible, is what I'd do with Ginny!"

"You like her," Myrtle insisted petulantly.

"No I don't," Draco snapped. "I mean, I do. I just – don't." – _do I? No I don't. I don't want the Weasel-girl._

Even if she does have tits after all.

She said like, not want.

Want, like, same fucking difference.

That's your father talking. That's just exactly what he'd say, just exactly how he thinks.

"You do," Myrtle was grinning nastily. "Maybe I should tell her."

"Maybe I should tell the Ravenclaws you peek in their showers," Draco retorted.

"When? While they're kicking your shoes over the railings?" Myrtle asked in mock innocence. "Oh, yes, I heard about that."

"Fuck you," Draco grumbled, feeling vastly pathetic for having been reduced to expletives twice in the same conversation by a Hufflepuff ghost.

"I'm worried about her," Myrtle blurted out, before he could again turn to leave. "Ginny. I'm worried."

"Why?" Draco asked sharply, turning back towards the ghost.

"You can't tell her I told," Myrtle said, biting her silvery lower lip.

"They are not using their brooms," Viktor said, sounding pained, while Ron cheered as Gryffindor scored yet another goal. Claudette Delacroix swooped down past Gretchen Avery, shouting something in the other girl's ear that couldn't be heard in the stands. From the way Avery flinched, though, it couldn't have been pleasant. "That girl, she is not quite so bad as the rest, and Harry is not either, but see – see how widely she just turned? That is a Nimbus 2001, she does not need to be doing that!"

Hermione glanced sideways at him, unsure whether she should be feeling fond or exasperated at his inability to see past the technicalities of the game.

"Good," Blaise said tersely. "They need to lose."

"I still think you're reading too much into it," Ron said as he sat, flush-faced and in high spirits. Gryffindor had the quaffle again, and Avery was diving determined toward a bludger that had been aimed at Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper. She misjudged the distance and swung a second too late; the quaffle clipped the end of her broom, which diverted it only enough to send it careening into Christopher Warrington, who was forced to abandon his pursuit of Katie Bell in order to avoid a concussion.

"You think they chose her because she's good?" Blaise asked pointedly – but Katie had passed the quaffle to Alicia, and Ron was on his feet again and not paying her any attention. Adrian Pucey attempted to intercept the pass, but was cut off by a bludger courtesy of George.

"You see?" Viktor asked Hermione, gesturing rather frantically at the pitch. "He did not need to dive so far, now it will take him too long to recover -"

The quaffle went through the goal; Ron whooped and punched both fists into the air, dancing from foot to foot in excitement. The crowd in the stands roared, all except the Slytherins, who booed and hissed. Someone threw what looked like a butterbeer cork into the stadium, in George's general direction. Madam Hooch circled the Slytherin stands, waggling her finger and obviously scolding.

Avery was flying in a tight circle below the goalposts, wavering and trying to get control of her damaged broom; it was hard to tell from a distance, but Hermione thought she might be crying.

Then she was jerking sharply to the right and almost unseating herself, as Claudette Delacroix nearly flew right through her, followed immediately by Harry.

"Snitch, they saw the snitch!" Ron announced unnecessarily.

"So I promised dead girl I wouldn't tell you that she told me you're carting another diary around, again, and mooning over it, again, or that you're opening things that ought not to be opened, again," Draco announced none too quietly, flopping down in the chair across from Ginny and sprawling out in a way that looked unaffected, but that she knew was no such thing. _If it was as casual as it looked, it wouldn't have put one of his appendages in easy grabbing or tripping range of every side of this table._

"So, why don't we just pretend I'm brilliant and I figured it out all by myself," he concluded. "Is that the diary?"

"Be quiet," Ginny snapped, closing the diary carefully and pulling it towards her, resisting the urge to cradle it protectively against her chest. She glanced quickly around the library, feeling very caught out, half expecting someone to come around the corner – to see the diary, to see Ginny Weasley sitting with Draco Not-Malfoy-Don't-Call-Me-That, _to see everything - don't let him see how much it's worth to you, don't give him that advantage._

He'll see anyway. He's the only one who ever sees anything.

Then he's a risk. A danger.

So if people don't see you, then they're worthless walking corpses, but if they do see you, then they're dangerous and threatening?

Look at the arrogant little bastard, just lounging there and thinking to intimidate me. As if I couldn't annihilate him instantly, as if he's anything -

- I thought he was a threat.

He is nothing, how dare he presume, how dare he question my right –

"Is it?" Draco pressed. "Never mind, of course it is. You wouldn't be fondling it like that if it weren't."

Ginny became suddenly aware that she was, in fact, running her fingers over the leather bindings yet again, and made a conscious effort to still them.

"You don't know anything about it," she hissed. _It's mine, mine, my right, my heritage, my reward –_

- for murdering third year Hufflepuffs? For killing your father – he wants to kill his father, did you know that? Did you know you have something in common?

Don't remember that, I didn't do that, that was the other, that was after –

I didn't do half the things I remember. I don't remember half the things I did. I am not who I remember -

- but I know that this is mine. This is mine. This is what I've earned.

"So tell me about it," Draco shrugged; another casual movement made somehow angry, predatory. She licked her lips. "You're missing the Quidditch game for it, so it must be good. Can I read it? Or won't it talk to me?"

"It's not like that," she explained, shaking her head. "It's not like – like the other -"

__

- ink fading into parchment and no body no feeling no flesh no blood and bone and feathers and chickens blood and fading .. fading .. I remember dying -

- but I didn't. I survived. I am more, more than flesh, more than words, I am Slytherin's Heir and this is MINE – I paid for it, paid for it with flesh and blood and pain -

- it means something, it must mean something, I know it must. Slytherin's own words and I never would have found them – never would have found them if not for everything -

"So what is it like?" Draco insisted, sitting up and leaning forward across the table. She snatched the book away.

__

He's a threat –

- he's the only one who sees, don't think about him like that, you can't start thinking about him like that, not Draco, not Myrtle – they see -

- the stupid little mudblood bitch told! Betrayed your trust! You see what comes of trusting them? Of caring about them?

He hasn't done anything yet. He hasn't tried to take it. There's no need yet –

- so you have to wait, then? You have to bleed first, before you'll see them for what they are? Wasn't my blood enough? Isn't everything you remember, everything they did -

- not THEM, not Myrtle, not Draco.

"I'm not going to take your fucking book," Draco snapped. "I don't want your fucking book. I'm not fond of being possessed, personally."

"I'm not possessed by the bloody book!" Ginny retorted sharply. "And you shouldn't – you should show some respect, you're in Slytherin House, you of all people ought to respect it."

"Why? What's it say that's so impressive? Read me a few pages," Draco suggested belligerently. "Share the wisdom of the Founder of my oh-so-noble House." His voice dripped sarcasm.

She just glared, clutching the diary tightly.

__

Insolent, pathetic little worm! He knows NOTHING, nothing –

"Well?" Draco insisted, leaning even closer. "What's it say? Is it all just very boring? 'Dear Diary, today I visited the local basilisk breeder and looked at lots of promising eggs -'"

"I can't read it!" Ginny blurted out angrily. "I don't know what it says because I can't read the bloody thing, alright? Are you happy?"

Draco sat back, frowning in confusion.

"What do you mean, you can't read it? Is it enchanted somehow, you need a charm to read it?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Ginny shook her head. _Shut your mouth, you stupid little girl! It's not his, he doesn't need to know anything about it, he has no right – _"It's just in Old English."

Draco didn't respond, and looked as if he were waiting for her to say something else.

"So?" he said finally. _Don't answer him, you idiot, you pathetic, weak, stupid little worthless bit of meat – don't you answer him, don't you let him see -_

"So I can't read it," Ginny repeated, swallowing down sudden and inexplicable nausea. _Why does this matter so much?_

"You can't read Old English?" Draco asked incredulously, and Ginny felt bile rising in her throat, a gut-deep shame that she didn't understand.

"Should I be able to?" she asked, swallowing, quieter than she'd meant to be. _I don't understand. _Tom wasn't explaining.

"I'd say so, yes," Draco answered, sneering. "Your family is just bloody pathetic, Weasel. Who ever heard of a Pureblood who couldn't read Old English? What's your family Grimoire written in, pig Latin?"

__

Family Grimoire?

Ginny didn't answer; the shame and rage welling up from the base of her spine were overwhelming, and utterly alien. _I don't care if my family has a Grimoire, I've never cared about things like that, and I want to destroy him just for knowing my shame – no, not mine, not mine – my family is noble and old and pure of blood, the blood of Slytherin – blood dripping and running away down the sink, hold your hand under the cold water long enough and it'll go numb – I PAID for this, for Slytherin's blood, Slytherin's words –_

- and I can't read them.

"You do have one, don't you?" Draco asked.

"And if I don't?" Ginny challenged. "Maybe then you'd better stop associating with me. You wouldn't want to be seen with such a commoner, would you? Whatever would your father think?" she lashed out.

__

Oh no, I didn't mean to say that – I don't want to hurt him, not him –

- not ANYONE, I don't want that, I don't, that's not me, not me -

- need to get out of here, need to get away, he'll see – I'll hurt him -

She stood to leave, and he was instantly on his feet, blocking her way.

"Move," she said flatly.

"Make me," he snapped back, and then a look of sudden, astonished comprehension crossed his features. "Wait – we've done this before. You say 'go', I say 'make me', and you say 'you know I could' – because you've got Voldemort in your head."

"Tom," Ginny corrected, crossing her arms defensively over hear chest, the book tucked between them. _I am Lord Voldemort! _"His name is just Tom."

"And you can't read the book," Draco went on.

"No," Ginny confirmed. "We've been over this, my family's one step up from being insects, you're so very superior, now get out of my way before you make me do something unfortunate."

"He can't read it either," Draco pronounced. "Bloody fucking hell, the great Lord Voldemort can't read Old English."

"Of course he can't!" Ginny snapped out in an angry hiss, suddenly furious in her own right. "Where do you suppose he would have learned it, hrmm? They don't teach it here, now do they, and he was only ever here or at the orphanage, and they weren't big on teaching old languages there. They were much too busy beating him bloody and breaking his bones and setting vicious dogs on him and generally driving him stark raving mad by the time he was about eight, so that he grew up to be the most evil wizard who ever lived and murdered loads of people, but in the face of all that, by all means, judge him for not knowing bloody Old English!"

She didn't realize until she'd finished that she'd been moving forward all the while she was ranting, or that Draco had backed away several steps and was looking a little paler than usual.

"So -" he paused, swallowed visibly. "So, he grew up in a Muggle orphanage?"

"You didn't know that?" Ginny asked disbelievingly.

"Nobody knows anything about his past," Draco was shaking his head. "I mean, my father knew he was Muggleborn on one side, but most people don't, and he disowned that heritage and he killed his father -" Draco stopped again, swallowed again, and looked a little like he might be sick.

"I don't – I can't talk about it," Ginny took a step back. _I just want it to stop, but it did stop, it stopped years ago and it never stops -_

"Okay," Draco agreed readily, still swallowing nervously every few seconds, and seeming no more eager to hear about it than Ginny was to tell.

"So I'm going to go now," Ginny said.

"No, wait!" He reached for her arm, stopped, drew back. She paused. "I can." She blinked at him. "Read Old English," he elaborated.

"I gathered that," she returned dryly.

"I mean I could read the diary for you," Draco explained. "To you. Whatever. Don't run away again, I know I'm a git, I just can't help it."

It almost made her smile, but she didn't loosen her grip on the diary. "I don't think – I don't think I want to let you hold it," Ginny said carefully.

"So I'll read over your shoulder," he suggested.

"O-okay," she agreed on an expelled breath.

"This sucks," Ron proclaimed glumly, shuffling along through the crowded main hallway back into Hogwarts.

"It is one game," Viktor shrugged. "Harry flies well, but he must learn not to be afraid of shoving girls."

"Yeah, 'cause she sure wasn't afraid of shoving him," Ron agreed sourly.

"She's a poisonous little bitch, and if she could have knocked him off his broom, she would have," Blaise interjected fervently, standing on her tiptoes to peer over throng of students, which had slowed to a snail's pace as everyone paused to rehash the highlights of the game with everyone they met along the way. "Don't these people know how to walk? It's not hard. You pick up one foot and put it in front of the other one."

"Uh, right," Ron agreed hastily, swallowing, and attempted to pick up his pace. He didn't get very far before he ran into a crush of Hufflepuff girls, stopped dead in the middle of the hallway and staring worshipfully at Viktor.

"Um, could you -" Ron started.

"Will you move?" Blaise snapped out. "You look like a bunch of demented grindylows, with your eyes about to fall out of your heads."

Hermione blinked in astonishment, and heard Viktor - who had slouched down so far that he kept nearly tripping over the ends of his cloak – making a noise that sounded halfway between choking and laughter. _I think I could like her, _she thought, surprised.

The Hufflepuffs scowled, but hurried away – one short blonde with very, very curly hair turned around for a last glimpse, tripped over her friend, and nearly toppled them both to the floor. The righted themselves in a fit of giggling before dashing to catch up to their companions. A moment later the entire group exploded in a fit of scandalized laughter.

__

Brainless little trolls.

Blaise paused, then suddenly turned to Hermione and blurted, "You need to be careful."

"Of what?" Ron asked, turning away from staring horrified after the Hufflepuffs to give his girlfriend a doubtful sidelong look.

"Of Slytherins," Blaise answered, still looking at Hermione. "Not all Slytherins, I mean, obviously not me, not most of us really, and there are a lot of good things about the house and I'm not sorry to be in it despite its reputation, but . . well, there are some that earn it. The reputation."

"I can take care of myself," Hermione said tonelessly, feeling Viktor's hands settling carefully on her hips. For some reason the gesture annoyed her, and she shook him off, stepping away from him, needing space. The movement brought her closer to Blaise, who bit her lip and backed away awkwardly.

"I know," Blaise said. "But not against a half-dozen people all jumping you at once. Nobody could."

"This is Hogwarts," Ron protested. "I mean, sure they'll throw hexes, but you really think they're going to jump her in the middle of the hallway?"

"Yes," Blaise said flatly. "They're going to be riding high on their victory, and they're going to have seen you -" she nodded at a point behind Hermione's head; Hermione turned and saw Viktor nodding back tersely, hands shoved into robe pockets and shoulders slouched. He met her eyes briefly before staring sullenly down at the floor. "- and they're going to think that – well -"

"That I need to be put in my place," Hermione finished for her, feeling the now familiar hot rush of rage going up her spine. She was surprised to hear that her voice was calm, level, unemotional – she felt as if she ought to be spitting fire.

__

It's not natural to be so angry. It can't be. This isn't anything new, you've known this since Malfoy called you mudblood in second year – this hasn't been a safe place, not ever –

- but it felt like one, and now it doesn't.

So I was a pathetic self-deluding little idiot, and now I'm not. Now I know better.

Now it's too late, now my parents are both dead, and I have to go to school with the people who killed them, who cut them, who bled them, who cracked my mother's skull – and mustn't say anything, mustn't say a word, must be careful -

"I'm sorry," Blaise was chewing hard on her lip, turning it a bright cherry red to match the spots of color on her pale cheeks.

"I wish everyone would stop saying that," Hermione snapped, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them. "It's not like you killed them, now is it?"

Blaise's perfect white little teeth paused mid-chew, the chilled flush on her cheeks drowned in the rush of color that flooded her face.

"I'm – I'm -" Blaise stammered, while Ron said, "Uh, Hermione -" in a half-worried, half annoyed sort of way, and behind her Viktor shuffled his shoes.

"Sorry," Hermione finished for the other girl. "I know, there's nothing else useful to say, and I'm sorry, and I think I'm just not fit for company right now," she concluded, turning on her heel and striding briskly away, fighting not to break into a run, not caring for the moment that she was leaving Viktor standing in the middle of the hallway looking like he wanted to just hunch his shoulders over until he disappeared.

Hermione heard familiar loping footsteps following her around a corner a moment later, and the murmur of excited whispers and titillated giggles that followed his progress, and paused. She flexed and clenched her fingers, trying to remember why hexing away the tongues of all the silly, stupid little girls who were all but swooning over him would be a bad idea. She turned around, plastering a bland expression on her face, not reacting to the speculative, predatory glances that were being shot her way.

__

Oh, are they fighting? Are they breaking up? Oh, will he be single again?

But they're all sorry. They're all so very sorry for me.

Vultures. That's what they are. They're all vultures, every last pathetic one of them –

"Hermione?" Viktor asked uncertainly. She made a show of taking his hand, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She whispered, "Not here," and dragged him down the hall into an empty classroom.

A shielding charm was cast on the door with perhaps more force than was necessary; Hermione suspected she'd soundproofed every classroom on this side of the hall.

"You are not well," Viktor pronounced with a heavy, worried frown. He hovered near her but didn't attempt touch her again, and she felt a small spasm of guilt.

"I'm alright," Hermione answered with a sigh. "I'm just – I'm sorry -" _I can't do this, I told you I would, I told you I would any how and I want you to believe in me and be proud of me but I can't, I just can't – _"I didn't mean to shove you away like that, I just – I can't think – I'm just so fucking angry I could explode!" she blurted out, and then slapped a horrified hand over her mouth.

__

I don't curse, not like that, I don't ever! My mother – my mother would be so ashamed –

- except she can't be ashamed because she's rotting in the ground. Because there's a puddle of blood in her skull and maybe she didn't feel it – maybe she was too far gone to feel it and she never knew – she'll never know – never know that she ought to be ashamed, that I can't think, I can't study, my grades are going to slip and I'm using foul language and I can't – can't –

"I would be as well," Viktor said with a shrug, hunching his shoulders further, and Hermione wondered if he was shoving his hands deeper into his pockets because he wanted to be holding her, but didn't know now if he could. _Or maybe he just doesn't want to touch me. Maybe I horrify him too. _"I think, if I were in your place, I would be plotting all the terrible things I could do to them without getting caught," he finished

"You would be?" Hermione asked, hating the slightly hopeful catch to her voice. _He doesn't think I'm a terrible person, then._

"Of course I would be," Viktor responded with a scowl. "Your Ministry – they do not know how to do anything, they act like these people – like they trampled a flowerbed or something, not like they killed people – they let the younger ones back to school, even, these -" he trailed off glowering, slipping into muttered Bulgarian.

"I don't know what that means," Hermione said hesitantly. "I don't think I've heard that word before."

"There is a reason for that," Viktor said, scuffing the side of his boot on the floor.

"Oh," she responded simply, and bit her lip – then remembered how Blaise had looked doing just that, all flushed and coquettish, and forced herself to let it go, grinding her teeth instead. _I don't want any girlish little habits. It would be ridiculous for me to look like that to everyone else, it would be a farce, a grotesque farce._

"I am sorry," Viktor said.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, I just said 'fuck'!" Hermione exclaimed. "And I just said it again!"

"I do know what that means," Viktor said, teasing but still careful, still a distance away.

"Of course you do, you spent the holiday with Ron and Fred and George," Hermione retorted.

"Ah, I see," Viktor nodded, slipping into a faint grin. "My sisters do not curse enough, that is the problem. I must tell them to curse more, so that you can improve your Bulgarian vocabulary."

"Don't you even think that near Oksana!" Hermione scolded. "She would have your head on a pike, and she would think I was some kind of – some kind of -"

He swooped suddenly forward and kissed her, just his lips catching hers, his hands still shoved into his pockets.

When he would have pulled away again, she grabbed for him, clutching handfuls of robes and pulling with such force that they nearly topped backwards. She stumbled into a desk with a muffled grunt, and his bony knee caught her thigh hard enough that she suspected there'd be a bruise, but she refused to let go, working her hands up the cloth until they reached the tousled ends of his hair.

__

What am I doing? I'm never this aggressive!

She thrust her tongue into his mouth and didn't care.

One of his arms was braced against the desk, steadying them; the other hand crept up her torso, brushed the underside of her breast through layers of cloak and robe and shirt. That was new and uncharted territory, and startling enough to make her pull back, gasping for breath.

"I do not think we want to do this in a classroom," Viktor said after a moment of panting, shifting his lower body away from hers in a way that made her flush with knowledge and a certain embarrassed pride. "The floor is hard."

"No," Hermione agreed breathlessly. "No, I don't think – not today." She suddenly giggled.

"What?" he asked.

"We're making out in an empty classroom," she pointed out. "Us. Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum are making out in an empty classroom." He chuckled, and that made her laugh, and the simple fact that he got the joke was enough to make something in her gut unclench in a way it hadn't in weeks.

The rush of guilt, when it came, was less before it was more – before she realized she didn't feel quite as bad as she had, and then felt worse for it. He saw her laugher slip, running away like rain into dry ground, and he tugged her tight against his chest. She could feel him still partially erect against her leg, and was surprised to find that she didn't really care. In that moment, being held was more important than being embarrassed.

__

And what does that make me?

Some kind of scarlet woman, Ron would say. Though I suppose he must do these things with Blaise.

What would my mother say? My father? Would they understand?

I can't be your little girl anymore. You left and went away – they took you away - and I can't be your good little girl with you gone, I'm too angry, too lonely, too afraid – and I feel so small –

"It will be alright," Viktor murmured into her hair.

"It can't be," Hermione argued. He answered in Bulgarian, too hushed and muffled for her to comprehend, so she couldn't argue back. She thought that she probably ought to be annoyed by that, but it was strangely comforting.

"She is right, you know," Viktor said after a moment, pulling slightly back and tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Who?" Hermione asked blankly.

"The girl with Ron," Viktor said, frowning in concentration. "I do not remember -"

"Blaise," Hermione supplied the name with a sigh. "I was absolutely beastly to her, and she didn't deserve that."

"If she didn't deserve it, then she will understand it," Viktor countered.

"That is very circular reasoning," Hermione retorted.

"You are changing the subject," he said, scowling down at her.

"Yes, I certainly am," Hermione scowled back, and crossed her arms. "I can take care of myself. I am not going to hide up in my tower like some pathetic useless little princess in some outdated, patriarchal, misogynistic story -"

"I did not understand the last half of that," Viktor frowned.

"That's probably good," Hermione sighed. "I'm being beastly again. Yes, she's right, I can't defend myself against a dozen people, no one could, and I'm not going to waste my time thinking on it since I can't do anything about it."

"You do not understand," Viktor insisted worriedly. "Those sorts of people like that -" and he inserted the word she hadn't recognized in Bulgarian again, though she was beginning to gather its meaning from context "- men like that, you do not understand how they will think to put a woman in her place."

__

A woman. Am I a woman? I can't be a little girl anymore.

I feel very little, but not like a girl. Not innocent. Just scared and weak and angry.

I never thought it would be like this- beginning to think of myself as a woman, an adult.

"They would rape me," Hermione said bluntly, and Viktor flinched. "No, actually, they would try."

"Hermione -"

"Yes, I know, dozens and dozens of people attacking me at once, but I'm not scared of them," she ranted. "I'm scared of what I'd do to them if they tried it. Oh, they'd probably kill me, but I think I'd kill a few of them first. In very unpleasant ways. Things they couldn't put on the front of the Daily Prophet and they'd probably have to cover it up and say they died in a fucking car crash! And I said fuck again, damn -!" and she cut herself off, hitting the desk with the flat of her palm hard enough to make it rattle and snapping her jaw shut hard enough to ache.

"I do not care if you say fuck," Viktor snapped back. "In fact, I like it. I think I would like to do it sometime, and I would like you alive for it."

Hermione blinked up at his very serious, scowling face.

"You're trying to shock me," she said after a moment.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"A little," she confessed. "But really, what else can I do?"

"You could stop worrying about what you might do to those worthless stinking pieces of shit," he pronounced firmly.

"Is that what you were saying in Bulgarian?" she asked, vaguely aghast.

"I think what I was saying in Bulgarian is worse," he responded with a shrug. "At least, I think so. How bad is what I said in English?"

"Pretty bad," she answered.

"Well, good," he sounded satisfied, then paused. "I could teach you things."

Both of her eyebrows shot towards her hairline, and he flushed, holding up both hands. "Not like – not those things!"

"We're skipping around subjects in a dangerous manner here," she pointed out.

"Curses!" he all but yelped. "I could teach you – things to defend yourself." She sobered instantly.

"The Dark Arts," Hermione said. "They teach the Dark Arts at Durmstrang."

"That is what else is wrong with your Ministry!" Viktor jabbed a finger pointedly at the floor, as if the Ministry might be housed in the Potions labs below them. "They say you cannot learn this, you cannot learn that, like just knowing these things will make you all go mad and start trying to – to conquer Poland!"

"Conquer Poland?" she asked incredulously.

"You know what I was meaning!"

"I do," she nodded reluctantly. "And – well, it makes a good lot of sense. I just -" She shrugged helplessly.

__

Just one more piece. One more little bit of innocent little girlhood. I doubt I'll miss it. I doubt I'll know it's gone.

"You are not comfortable with these things," Viktor guessed. "You are not even comfortable with me knowing these things – you never wanted to hear about that class, when we talked over the summer, and you wanted to know all about my other classes."

"Here, we're taught that anything like that is wrong," Hermione tried to explain. "Which I'm not sure anyone even believes, because the difference between a curse and a hex is just a matter of strength, or duration, but it's still malevolent magic, the intent is practically the same, just a matter of degree, and half the charms we use could be hexes in the right circumstances, so really it's all a matter of the situation, and the intent of the one casting the spell, but -"

"But?" Viktor pressed.

"But I'm a bloody fucking Gryffindor and I'm a good girl and we good girl Gryffindors don't do things like that," she blurted out in a rush. "You're right, I'm an idiot. I had no idea I even thought like that."

"You are not an idiot," he retorted sharply. "You are not an idiot at all. I have never – I have never had someone I could talk to this way, and we do not even speak the same language very well. Most people, they do not even try to understand things like you do."

Hermione blushed, and murmured, "You too," to the floor, before looking up at him determinedly, biting her lip without realizing what she was doing. "Well, okay then. No time like the present – what can you show me?"

"What do you already know?" Viktor asked, seeming a little taken aback by her sudden enthusiasm.

"Nothing," she responded. "Just assume I know nothing. Assume we're starting from scratch."

The hallway just outside the Slytherin common room was empty, and Blaise heard no one behind her; the hand that clamped over her mouth came out of nowhere. In the length of time it took her to realize she couldn't draw in a breath to scream, she was twisted off her feet and pressed none too gently into the wall. The stone dug into her cheek, and her nose was bent to an uncomfortable angle that felt just short of snapping. She tried to grab for her wand, and found her arms pinned. Struggling resulted only in scraping her cheek against the stone until she felt the sting of broken skin, and went still, her throat still vibrating with muffled cries.

The need to struggle was overwhelming in the first seconds; then the need for air became paramount. She could suck in a thin whistle of it through her nose, but that was all. She could see nothing but stone wall, empty hallway, and the taunting edge of the doorway into the common room.

There was a celebration already started inside; Blaise could hear laughter, faint through the thick walls. There was a rushing sound in her ears, a faint whiteness at the edges of her vision; unable to do anything else, her entire body trembled until her teeth chattered. Her cheek throbbed, and she felt the trickling of something hot down her skin.

"Hello, Zabini," said a voice behind her; too far behind her to be the person restraining her. It was Delacroix. Blaise felt her pulse jumping, remembering her words to Ron earlier – _she's a poisonous bitch. She'd kill him if she had the chance._

How was I stupid enough to give them a chance – they must have had invisibility cloaks, but I should have heard them coming, I shouldn't have been walking by myself -

- I didn't think it'd gone this far, he's a pureblood, and I'm not even sleeping with him, but I should have know, should have known with who his father is, but I thought if Morag was still talking to me it couldn't be this bad - stupid, stupid, stupid and thoughtless and my face hurts and my ribs hurt and another millimeter would break my nose – please, I don't want them to hurt me – please – please let someone come along -

- please!

"What can you be thinking right now, Zabini?" asked Delacroix's disembodied voice. Blaise tried to scream again; the hand tightened, pressed closer up under her nose, and the air thinned. Her chest pressed between stone wall and a body immovable enough to have been stone itself. She could feel a new pressure against her lower back, and knew that her attacker was male, taller than she was, and enjoying himself.

__

I'm going to be sick – I'm going to be sick and he won't move his hand and I'll choke to death on my own vomit –

- please, somebody come along, please, please -

"No, don't answer," Delacroix chided smugly, and her voice was a little closer. "I want to guess. I think . . you're thinking of all the nasty things that could happen right now, and no one would ever hear you scream."

She heard footsteps, and was sure that was deliberate. A puff of hot breath tickled her ear.

"Maybe this will help you remember where it is you sleep," Delacroix whispered. Then, briskly, "Come along, Gregory."

The hand vanished, and Blaise's knees gave way. She stayed huddle against the wall long enough to hear the door creaking open. Voices cheered the heroine of the day; she heard Delacroix's shrill, delighted laughter. She waited another breath, two – the door closed, the voices became muffled again.

Blaise stood; she wiped a hand across her cheek and came away with only a faint translucent smear of blood, and scrubbed the rest away, ignoring the stinging. She bit her lips, worried them between her teeth, aware they would be pale otherwise. She felt her eyes, checking to be certain they hadn't gone puffy. It took a moment longer to steady her breathing.

Then she walked the remaining seven steps down the hall to the door, plastered a smile on her face, and joined the celebration. No one asked what happened to her face. No one commented when, halfway through the evening, she disappeared into the bathrooms and was repeatedly, violently ill.

TBC . .


	30. Found

Title: Found

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: "Truth is just like time, it catches up and it just keeps going." – Dar Williams, 'Cool as I Am'

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

I apologize for the lack of formatting - there ought to be little asterisks between scene-shifts and also to place emphasis in some parts of the dialogue, but is eating them. I went through and tried to re-insert them with the new text editor, and it still ate them when I saved my changes. So, there's nothing much I can do.

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - user name cissasghost (I'd provide a link but doesn't seem to like links) - It occasionally contains fic-related ramblings.

"It does stop this eventually, right?" Willow asked, scrunching up her nose and staring out at the dismal gray sky and the mixture of snow and sleet that was falling from it. The charm on the windows that kept out the inclement weather couldn't completely ward off the damp chill.

"It does," Severus confirmed, leaning in behind her and wrapping robe-clad arms like great black wings around her. _He's so warm – why doesn't he ever get cold?_

_Probably has something to do with the eighty pounds of black robes, and the coat and trousers underneath._

_Why don't they make trousers for witches? I mean, what century is this supposed to be, huh? Okay, sure, the really traditionalist men don't wear them either, but if I want to be all new-fangled and practical, I should get to be! _

_I think Severus would keel over and die if he knew anyone had ever thought of him as "new-fangled". Not that anyone who isn't me has really used that word since the Victorian era or anything, but – well, it fits. _

_And I feel like I belong in a novel by the Bronte sisters, for Pete's sake. I probably look wan and pale and sickly, and will shortly catch pneumonia and die a very melodramatic death. _

"Generally in the spring. Not in February," Severus was concluding, sounding both derisive and amused.

"It's still February?" Willow asked wistfully.

_I should just go buy a pair of wizard's trousers. I'm already the Mudblood Yankee wilder, why not be the transvestite Mudblood Yankee wilder? Maybe a few pureblood parents would just up and have seizures about it, and die of the shock, and thus cease to write Dumbledore annoying letters._

"It's the third,"Severus pointed out.

"Well, bleh," Willow responded petulantly. _Though why any of them are bitching about the appointment of teachers who aren't even teaching required courses when there's like, the trial of the century going on and probably starting a full-out war, I really don't get. _

_Well, maybe it's distraction. Maybe they want to think about something not so dire, like what sort of degenerates are influencing the impressionable minds of their youth. _

_Though actually, that sounds pretty dire too, put that way. _

_I am not dire, damn it, I'm trying to help and my legs are cold. _

"A_hem_!" said a very vehement, scandalized sounding voice just behind them. Willow pried herself reluctantly out of Severus' suddenly rigid arms, and scowled at the intrusion.

Professor Winston Reed – who did not wear trousers, or if he did, wore robes of sufficient length to hide them – had his arms folded across his rather anemic-looking chest, and was scowling furiously.

_Wow, he might actually look intimidating if . . well, if he weren't him. _

"Yes?" Severus drawled in a distinctly unamused tone, crossing his own arms. _It's possible I'm biased, but I think he's way better at looking scary. _"What is it now, Reed? Have your students stolen your ledger again? Because I'd like to point out that your insinuations that it was Slytherins behind that last incident were completely unfounded, and it was eventually found in a Gryffindor's -

"I have my students perfectly well under control, thank you very much, Professor Snape," Reed snapped out, chin jutting indignantly. The effect was somewhat ruined by a lock of sandy hair falling in his face. He had to unfold his arms to brush it away, and managed to knock his glasses askew in the process. He also dropped the paper he'd been holding under one arm.

"Lemme get that for you," Willow chirped with excess enthusiasm, as it gave her an excuse to bend down and hide her grin. _Must not antagonize fellow faculty members. Really must not._

_Even if they're . . well, Reed. _

He'd folded the paper down to a precise square around the article he was reading –"Families of Accused Form Anti-Ministry Coalition – Continued from Front Page" read the title.

"Thank you," Reed snipped, yanking the paper out of her grasp.

_I already read it this morning, so – bleh! Jerk. Poop-head jerk._

_Is it bad that I can't think of someone I actually dislike that way anymore without feeling a little weird that I'm using Severus' nickname as an insult? _

_Not that he, you know, knows it's a nickname or anything. It's just what I call him when he calls me an interfering, sanctimonious twit._

_Okay, I need to come up with more intelligent insults, I really do. _

"I was going to say," Reed went on loudly, before leaning in towards the pair and continuing in a distinctly unsubtle hiss, "that perhaps you ought to be more discreet. In front of the students."

There were, in fact, perhaps a half-dozen students in the near-empty hallway, all Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw first years making their way back into the main portion of the castle after Herbology. They were universally red-nosed, sniffling, and miserable-looking, and Willow strongly suspected they could have easily ignored a herd of stampeding hippogriffs.

_They weren't staring so much before, jerk-person. _

_They do stare a little, sometimes – the students. In a whispering-and-giggling kinda Snape's-got-a-girlfriend way. But not so much since he gave that poor Hufflepuff girl a week's detention for it, last week. _

_But it really is mostly good-natured, I think – okay, maybe a few of them want to know what I'm thinking, but mostly I think – well, so maybe they're not precisely happy for him 'cause he's not really their favorite professor or anything, but – well, okay, so it's just that they want to know what I'm thinking._

_But it's no big deal, for pete's sake, there's a kangaroo court starting a war down in London, could somebody around here please learn how to spell 'priorities'?_

"Really," Snape returned, sounding doubtful. "Obviously we were unaware of the inappropriateness of our behavior. Perhaps you could enlighten us, Professor Reed, as to how we were indiscreet?" Willow gave him a sideways glance – _what are we doing here, Mister? Some of us may have wanted to argue that point –_

"Well, you were – indiscreet," Reed repeated, gesturing with one hand at both of them, taking obvious care not to drop his paper a second time.

"How?" Snape pressed.

"You were – there, and she-" Reed stammered, and blushed a rather unbecoming shade of fuschia. " – and, arms-"

"Arms," Snape repeated flatly, raising one dark brow.

"Well, I couldn't see your hands!" Reed finished determinedly, turning nearly purple. Willow stifled a giggle, turning it into a rather inelegant snort – Reed shot her a nasty glance, shuffling his feet awkwardly but standing his ground.

"I see," Snape concluded smugly. "Clearly, that could be distressing to a person of stifled, prurient, hormonal adolescent sensibilities." He paused, and Reed sputtered indignantly. "I am referring to the students, of course," Severus finished smoothly, reaching for Willow's elbow and pulling her away before she asphyxiated herself in attempting to control the urge to burst into outright laughter.

"That – that was not nice," she managed to stammer between giggles, once they'd rounded a corner.

"I was more interested in 'effective' than 'nice'," Severus retorted, sneering on the last word. "Of all the arrogant, presumptuous – what are you doing?" he cut off, as Willow pulled to a stop and grabbed a handful of his robes.

"Being indiscreet," she answered with a shrug, and pulled him down so that she could place an affectionate peck on the corner of his scowling mouth.

"Oh – ah – I'm – bye!" Neville Longbottom stammered, eyes round as saucers, before stumbling back out of the 5th year Gryffindor boys' dorm as if pursued by hungry dragons.

"Damn it," Blaise grumbled, shoving irritably away from Ron and attempting to straighten her hair; it had been in a French braid when they snuck in through the empty common room. Halfway up the stairs it had gotten loosened a bit, as fingers were shoved impatiently through its weavings. By the time they'd made it into the dorm, the tie had been lost – was laying just behind the outside door, in fact. When Neville burst in, it was nearly loose and very tangled, spread out over the comforter at the wrong end of Ron's bed; they hadn't been paying all that much attention when they tumbled there.

Her fingers shook as she refastened the top two buttons of her blouse, and then she was stalking irritably around the room looking for her sweater and her hair tie, muttering to herself.

"Sorry," Ron mumbled; he remained seated on the bed, and pulled a pillow into his lap. "I thought he was in the greenhouse, that's where he usually is this time of day."

"It's not your fault," Blaise snapped. "It's his room too, he's allowed to be here."

"Yeah, but I thought we'd have-"

"Never mind," she cut him off. "I should be getting back anyway, it's almost dinnertime."

"Oh, right," Ron returned, growing annoyed. "Can't let anyone see you coming from Gryffindor tower."

"No, I can't," she snipped, finding her sweater behind a pile of Seamus Finnegan's books and pulling it over her head. The static made her hair stand out like a dark cloud around her flushed face.

"Well why not?" Ron demanded; that she looked gorgeous rumpled and annoyed was suddenly more infuriating than tempting.

"Because I can't," she insisted. "Where'd my hair tie go?"

"How should I know?" Ron retorted. "Maybe it's hiding 'cause it doesn't want to be seen with a Gryffindor!"

"Don't be an ass," she scowled at him dismissively. "I need to find it, if my hair's different people are going to notice-"

"Are you even listening to me?" Ron demanded.

"Of course I'm listening to you but you're being an ass!" she shot back. "Why can't you just let it go?"

"You didn't used to be embarrassed to be seen with me," Ron insisted. "Why's it different now?"

"I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you," Blaise sighed, sounding exasperated.

"Oh, right, you're not embarrassed to be seen with me, it's just that you don't want anybody to see us together. That makes loads of sense," he threw up his hands, then grabbed the pillow off his lap and threw it hard at the headboard, before standing.

"Stop it, help me find my hair tie," Blaise mumbled, lifting up a pair of Neville's shoes and looking inside them.

"Who gives a bloody damn about your hair tie?" Ron shouted.

"I do!" she shouted back. "You know what, forget it. Just forget it, I'll see you in class." she stomped off, muttering, pulling her fingers violently through her hair. Ron watched the door slam behind her; for a moment he just stared, then kicked Neville's shoe at it.

"Hey, stop there -" Draco reached out over Ginny's shoulder, not quite touching either her or the diary.

"What?" she paused, letting the pages still.

"Back a few -" he gestured, and she flipped.

"Pervert," she snapped irritably when she saw what had intrigued him. It was the same woman that was sketched on the first page of the diary, and nearly every page since. She was sprawled out across a bed, drawn in stark shadows that suggested torchlight, and wearing nothing but the shadows. The expression on her face was vaguely amused, vaguely impatient.

"What? It's the most interesting thing we've found in a hundred bloody pages," he protested. She hadn't turned the page, feeling oddly caught by the woman's expression. _I've seen Mum look at Dad that way; well, except more clothed. Thankfully. _

"Tom doesn't find that interesting?" Draco asked, and there was an edge of care to his voice, as if he wasn't sure how she'd take the question.

_Tom's never seen anything like that, _Ginny thought.

_Just flesh. Lust. A powerful tool for the control of the weak-minded, easily engendered, easily manipulated . . useful . . _

_. . but that's not why you're staring at it, is it? Not what you're seeing in her face._

_All those sketches, every minute of her life – _

_- it's insignificant! There was a reason I found this, a reason, a purpose – this was meant to be mine, there must be more to it - _

"No," she snapped caustically, and hastily flipped the page, past sketches of frighteningly normal things; a round-faced baby balanced on the woman's hip, a taller child working a loose tooth with his tongue, a toddler in intricate braids collapsed asleep on the woman's chest, her own chin tucked down over her daughter's head and her lips just slightly parted. Peaceful. _Forever. _"Not like that he doesn't."

"Just asking," Draco shrugged, he was sitting with his legs splayed out to either side of her hips, sufficiently taller that he could slouch while she knelt and still see easily over her shoulder. They weren't touching, and something about that irritated her; that he'd begun to be careful of her.

_But I don't know what I might do if he weren't. _

She found an unillustrated page and stopped, smoothed it almost compulsively; the need to touch the diary remained. _Mine. _"Here. This, what does this say?"

"Clariandra, min modwelig wif, baed me to awritan hire nytt praett to healdan merefix unformolsnod," Draco read out, "swa þæt heo willan ne forgitan."

"Stop it, just tell me what it means," Ginny snipped impatiently.

"It means, 'Clariandra, my talented wife, asked me to write down her useful charm to preserve fish,'" he responded in a very dry tone, "so that she wouldn't forget it."

Ginny began furiously flipping pages.

"Well, if you think about it, that would have been a really bloody brilliant thing to figure out, back then," Draco pondered aloud. "Can you picture living before they knew how to preserve fish and meat and things? Just the smell -"

"Here," she paused, ran her fingers down another unadorned page. "This one. What does this say?" _It must mean something, it must, there's something here, something I was meant to find, that I paid for – something more important – more important than anything, than blood or flesh or bone or pain or death – _

"It says, 'My heir should go read some other fucking book, because my life was bloody boring,'" Draco retorted.

"What does it _say!_" Ginny demanded sharply, nearly shouting; the harsh pitch of her voice reverberated around the closed space of the empty astronomy tower, echoing back to her, _say, say, say .. _

"It says Eadric – that's the brat that had the loose tooth back a ways, I think – got lost in the woods," Draco said tiredly. "What it does not say is 'here is the meaning of life', or 'here are my instructions in world domination, for my heir only' or -"

Ginny snapped the diary shut and pushed herself up off the floor away from him, then settled into a corner across the room with the diary tucked to her chest and glared at him.

"What?" Draco snapped. "This is fucking pointless. All he wrote about was his wife and his brats. Oh, and the bits about classifying new kinds of snake. And the part where he hired on ghosts to haunt trade routes and then got the merchants to pay him for protection – that part was actually sort of amusing, if you want to read more of that bit -"

"It means something," Ginny interrupted flatly, putting her chin down on her knees. "There's a reason -"

"What if there's not?" Draco pressed. "What if it's just a diary?"

"It's Slytherin's diary," Ginny insisted.

"Yeah, and I'm less impressed by the minute," Draco shot back. "He was just normal. A little bit on the conniving side, disgustingly besotted with his wife, and had a really weird preoccupation for things with scales, but pretty much ordinary."

"He can't be," Ginny said in a tiny voice. "He's Slytherin. He's the greatest wizard who ever lived, his ideas -"

" – were mostly about how to better swindle the Normans, so he could buy pretty things for his wife," Draco interrupted sharply. "He probably wasn't even any big deal for his time; he's just impressive now because we've lost so much knowledge."

"But I found it," Ginny murmured into the crook of her arm, laying her head down. "I found it – I did -"

"Bugger that," Draco snapped, jumping suddenly to his feet and making her flinch. "We're doing something else. Let's go flying."

She raised her head just enough to glower incredulously. "It's nearly dark, pouring down sleet in buckets, and neither of us has a broom," she pronounced flatly, before putting her head back down.

"So we'll borrow one," he suggested, shifting impatiently from foot to foot in front of her.

"Steal one, you mean," she grumbled into her robe sleeve.

"Well, yeah," he admitted. "But I was being mindful of your delicate Gryffindor sensibilities."

She gave a short bark of muffled laughter. _Delicate sensibilities. _

"Right, I'm a moron," he sighed.

"Uh-huh," she agreed tiredly; she felt too tired to move, and at the same time taut with tension – as if she couldn't bear to take another breath until something began making some sense. It felt safest not to move; she tried and failed not to even think. _It must mean something – I'm just too pathetic and stupid to find it – but it's there, I know it's there, it means something – _

"How 'bout your brothers? The twin ones? They've decent brooms, don't they?"

"Cleansweeps," she answered. "But decent ones." Draco snorted. Ginny ignored him.

"Well, I suppose if that's the best we're going to get, it'll have to do," he pronounced a moment later with a long-suffering sigh. "They might ice up a bit, but I think we'll manage. How good are you with weather like this?"

"I'm not," Ginny muttered, annoyed. _I do not care about bloody brooms. _"Mum never let me."

"Oh," Draco paused, momentarily thwarted. "Well, then you'll just have to ride along behind me. I can fly in any weather," he said, and Ginny noted a touch of the old Malfoy arrogance making its way into his voice. "Once, there was a blizzard, came up suddenly, and I was about 800 feet up over this Muggle town -"

"We're not stealing Fred and George's brooms," Ginny interrupted.

"No, we're only stealing one of them now, 'cause your Mum wouldn't let her baby girl learn to fly in the rain," Draco agreed. "So we're not stealing both of them, right."

"We're not stealing any of them," Ginny retorted.

"Come on, Weasel!" Draco whined, and she glanced up to see him practically bouncing in frustration. "Don't you want to get out of this place? Just for a bloody hour, just – this place is a fucking cage, I don't know how I ever stood it before -"

"By making everyone else miserable," Ginny pointed out. "You entertained yourself by making all of our lives hell. Remember?" He scowled. "Well, you did."

"I miss flying," he insisted petulantly. "Come on, please? We'll read that stupid fucking book for hours and hours and hours later, when we get back, promise -"

"It's almost dark," she protested, but weakly. He grinned.

"Oh," Morag MacDougal exclaimed as Blaise took the seat next to her; chill blue-green eyes ran a rapid assessment of Blaise's appearance, pausing a fraction of a second on her mussed hair. "Oh, Blaise – hello. I'm sorry."

"For what?" Blaise asked, trying to sound casual. She felt overheated and a bit like the Weird Sisters were giving a live concert in her stomach; she hope she wasn't still flushed, though her skin still felt hypersensitive, her sweater poking coarse fibers through the thin material of her shirt and making her want to rip the thing back off. _She noticed. I knew someone would notice, I knew it, and I don't know why he has to be such a prat about it –_

_- though it could have something to do with not appreciating being treated like a leper in public. And I like him, I really like him a whole lot, and it's not bloody fair. He's mad at me now. _

_I don't want him mad at me, and I can't bloody well explain, and I hate this. I just bloody hate this. _

"It's just that I told Gretchen Avery I'd sit with her today," Morag was saying, looking excessively apologetic. "She's having such a rough time of it, you know, she's really -" Morag leaned in towards Blaise and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hiss, "- well, she's just really not that good, you know? At Quidditch. And Delacroix has been giving her seven different kinds of hell even if we are likely to get the Cup anyway, and I thought – well, that it would be the thing to do, you know. With her father missing and all," Morag finished carefully, watching Blaise's every twitch.

"That's a nice idea," Blaise agreed readily.

"And well – you know Delacroix, she's -"Morag paused, and quirked a brow suggestively.

"Not my biggest admirer?" Blaise finished for her.

"You just got off on the wrong foot or something, that's all," Morag said dismissively, and then fixed on a point just past Blaise's shoulder and shouted, "Gretchen!"

Blaise turned in time to see Gretchen Avery shuffle to a started stop, looking very puzzled. Gretchen was tall for her age and thin, with a hooked nose she hadn't quite grown into and dark brows that seemed to swallow her face. Blaise thought that in a few years she'd look dramatic, but in the present she just looked a bit like she'd been stretched. _And she's no better at being subtle than she is at hitting bludgers_.

"Get over here, silly!" Morag called out jovially. Gretchen gave the small clutch of fellow second-year girls she'd arrived with a vaguely pleading look – _somebody tell me what's going on, _said that look. _I'd really rather not get another upperclassman mad at me. _

_They didn't have any lunch date. Not before I lost my stupid bloody goddamned hair tie, anyway. _

"I'll just get out of the way," Blaise mumbled and stood, leaving the plate she hadn't had time to fill. Gretchen nervously took her place; Gretchen's friends shuffled out of Blaise's way as if afraid she might be contagious.

There was an empty place near the far end of the table, and Blaise hurried towards it, trying to ignore the turning of many eyes as she passed. She sat without looking up, reaching out mechanically for whatever happened to be on the table, and realized only after it was on her plate that she'd helped herself to a heaping portion of mashed potatoes. _I don't like mashed potatoes. _

She forced herself to look up before she accidentally spooned up something else vile; a gaggle of first and second-year boys sat across from her, staring. They looked hurriedly away, snickering none too subtly.

"Would you pass the roast pork, please?" she asked, trying to sound cool and unaffected. As one they blinked back up at her. "It's right over – right at your elbow. You're Quentin, right? Your sister Maribeth graduated last year?" The boy in question – a sand-haired twig of a child – just gaped at her as if she'd spoken in Troll. The boy next to him elbowed him hard, and Quentin scowled at his friend and kicked him under the table.

"Could I – could you just pass -" Blaise tried to gesture towards the pork, but the boys were now too busy abusing one another's shins and looking rather dementedly amused that they were getting away with it.

"They're ignoring you," pointed out another of their companions.

"I've noticed that," Blaise snapped back.

"How come you're not sitting with your own year?" the boy demanded; Blaise didn't answer, and gave up on the pork, grabbing the next nearest serving dish and spearing several stems of asparagus with great enthusiasm. _Smug little twits who's voices have yet to crack shouldn't be asking shrewd questions like that._

Someone leaned in over her shoulder just as she was biting down on an asparagus stem, causing her to jump and nearly swallow the stringy vegetable whole. She was caught up in a fit of coughing, and from the hysterical laughter coming from the other side of the table, she guessed that she was probably turning very purple with the effort of neither choking to death nor spitting asparagus into the boys' faces. _Though it would serve them right if I did! _

"You're fooling nobody, Zabini," Delacroix whispered, then leaned away and continued on down the table. Blaise grabbed for her pumpkin juice and buried her face in the glass, washing the asparagus down her throat and wishing she could just crawl under the table.

_I want to go home. I just want to go bloody home, and never come back here. I could transfer to Beaubatons next term – _

The bench next to her creaked.

"What?" she snapped, slamming her glass down on the table hard enough to make a little juice slosh out over the side. "Who wants to threaten me n-" she cut off mid-syllable, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth and sticking as her eyes went wide and round and her stomach seemed to leap up into her throat, all full of churning pumpkin juice.

"Who's threatening you?" Ron scowled.

"What – what are you -" she stammered. _Oh no. He didn't. He CAN'T have, this is not happening, oh please this cannot be happening – _"What are you doing?!"

"I'm sitting with my girlfriend," Ron pronounced mulishly, "'cause that's what people do when they're seeing each other, they sit together and things, and they're not embarrassed of each other."

"You – you can't - " Blaise stuttered. _I could transfer to Beaubatons mid-term. I could tell Mum I miss my cousin Simone, we had a good time over the summer, I'm sure Simone would be happy to see me, and besides, if I stay here they're going to bloody kill me. _

_He can't be doing this. How can he be doing this? How can he be bloody stupid enough to be doing this?_

_I really really like him and he's going to get me really really killed, the bloody sodding idiot!_

"Could you pass the potatoes?" Ron asked determinedly, face stubbornly set.

Ginny stood flat against the wall behind Greenhouse #3, arms folded across her chest and glowering as Draco turned Fred's broom over in his hands, eyeing it critically.

"So are you willing to be seen in public with it?" she finally snipped, patience snapping as a half-frozen raindrop hit her squarely in the nose; the wind was blowing unpredictably, gusting in what seemed like all directions. It was a dark blue-gray twilight; in another half-hour they wouldn't be able to see a thing.

"We're not going to be seen in public, Weasel," Draco responded distractedly, straightening seemingly random twigs. "Not unless you want to get expelled."

"That's your specialty, sorry, not mine," she shot back.

"Well, it's well cared for, I'll give it that," Draco conceded, trying to set the broom on the back of his hand and make it balance; he nearly dropped it three times before he gave up. "And I think it'll hold two, though I can't quite get the balance of it in this wind. But it'll do. One of your brothers may not be completely useless after all, Weasel."

"You'd better hope he's completely useless," Ginny warned, swallowing down the lump of guilt in her throat. "Or that Angelina's very useful, I should say, but either way, you'd better hope he doesn't miss that." _It's not like he's never done worse. He'd probably approve, for Merlin's sake. _

_Except for the part where it's Draco Malfoy you're out here with. _

_This is a waste of bloody time – _

_- he's bored, and if he gets too bored he'll stop wanting to translate it at all, and where does that leave you, hrmm?_

_You're not out here for the diary. You're out here to forget, to let him distract you, you weak, pathetic, unworthy little – _

"So -" Draco cut in on her thoughts, stepping a little away from the greenhouse wall and mounting the broom, " – are you coming, or are you just going to glare at me disapprovingly? Because if you are, I'll warn you, the visibility's not very good, I probably won't even see it once I'm -"

"Shut up," she snipped, stomping over to Draco and the broom and climbing on behind him. She'd had the presence of mind to nick a pair of Ron's trousers while she was pilfering the broom, so her legs were not completely bare when her robes rode up, but the trousers were not as cozy as she'd hoped. The wind went right through them, and she shivered.

_I hate the cold. You could be inside, you could be warm – _

He was sitting only slightly forward of the center of the broom, leaving her very little room to arrange her robes so that they wouldn't tangle in the twigs at some inopportune moment and send them careening out of the sky. It suddenly occurred to her that she was going to have to ride pressed right up against Draco's back.

"You do know how to sit on a broom, right, Weasel?" Draco glanced back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. The cold had turned his pale complexion an alarming red around the nose and ears. _Weak – _

_- he's just pale, that's all. _

She shifted awkwardly forward, until her legs bumped the back of his thighs, and snaked her arms around his chest, clasping her own wrists.

"Alright?" he asked, and just waited.

"Where are we going?" she asked by way of response, tucking her face down against the back of his neck, deciding that between touching him and looking at him, touching as infinitely safer. Snow had collected on his cloak and it was cold against her skin, but her front was beginning to warm where she was pressed to his back. _Just takes a few seconds for the heat to come through all the clothes we have on, I guess._

_My mother would kill me. My mother would absolutely die if she saw this. _

_It's just flesh, it's just a distraction, a waste of time – _

_- I thought you wanted to be warm. Well, this is warm._

"Dunno," Draco answered with a shrug that she felt all the way down to the pit of her stomach; his whole body moved with it. Then he kicked off from the ground, and she was far too busy hanging on for dear life to worry about anything else.

"Are you completely insane?" she shrieked into his ear, as he shot nearly vertically up into the clouds. Even shielded behind him as she was, the sleet stung like icy needles and she could barely keep her eyes open; she didn't know how he could possibly see.

"That's your specialty, Weasel, not mine," he retorted, and they just kept climbing.

"Stop following me!" Blaise hissed out furiously.

"Stop running away and I'll stop following you," Ron retorted, stomping determinedly after her. "You didn't even finish your dinner – what, sitting with me makes you lose your appetite?"

"Don't be an idiot," she snapped, rounding a corner. "You can't do this, you can't just do this."

"Why the hell not?" he protested, throwing up his hands and glaring daggers at the back of her head; her hair swished back and forth as she walked, and it reminded him of the tail of an angry cat. He wanted to yank on it, just to see if it would get her to turn around.

"Because you can't!" Blaise insisted, not slowing.

"Well that's real convincing," he shouted at the back of her head. "Great argument there. I'm really won over -" She stopped so abruptly he nearly ran into her, whipping around to face him; Ron saw with something like shock that she was crying.

"Because if certain people see I'm spending time with you then they're going to hurt me," she hissed into his face, close enough that he could see the salty tracks of individual tears running down her flushed cheeks, her ordinary pale complexion mottled.

"What?" he asked uncomprehendingly, "Who?" An angry edge remained to his voice, but he was suddenly nearly as sick as he was furious. _She's been crying the whole way – since we left the hall. _

"Delacroix and Goyle and I don't know who else," Blaise answered quietly, stepping back and folding her arms. "Maybe lots more people – my face was all scratched and nobody said anything-"

"Your face was all scratched?" Ron demanded, growing angry again. "When? I never saw that – and how'd it get scratched, anyway? You just said they would, you didn't say they already had-"

"After the Quidditch game when Viktor Krum was here, I used a concealing potion, and it got scratched when Goyle shoved me into a wall," she rattled off, as if reciting potion ingredients. "It wasn't – it wasn't like I was really hurt, it was a warning, that's-"

"I'll kill him," Ron blurted out, then, "You didn't tell me? Were you ever going to tell me?"

"No, you won't!" she snapped back. "You'll leave it the bloody hell alone!"

"I can't just leave that, bloody hell-"

"You'll make it worse!"

"Well how much worse can it get? Did you tell Snape? Didn't he do anything about it?"

"Of course I couldn't tell Snape, you don't understand!"

"No, I bloody well don't! And I'm not just letting some asshole shove you into walls!" he shouted.

"It's not your business!" she shouted back, letting her arms drop in clear exasperation.

"Look, are you my girlfriend or not?" Ron demanded, arms crossed, and he fully expected her to protest that of course she was – just as she had every other time they'd had this conversation. At the back of his mind was the realization that they'd never screamed this conversation in the middle of a hallway before, and she'd never been crying before, but those things didn't quite register at first. Then the seconds ticked by and she stood there sniffling and blotchy with her arms just hanging at her sides, and he began to realize that had been exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Look, I just -" he began defensively, unable to keep all the anger out of his voice, but wanting the words back none the less. _This is just so stupid, just so bloody stupid – _

"Not," she said softly, then hiccoughed.

He felt as if his stomach had just dropped right out of his body and possibly fallen through the floor, and didn't have any idea what to say. The words _not what? _floated through his brain, but he didn't say them, because he knew the answer already despite the illogical urge to clarify what was already completely obvious. _Just to make sure .. because it'd be really stupid to think it if that wasn't what she meant .. but of course it's what she bloody meant . . _

Blaise hiccoughed again, and then blurted out, "Damn it!" He was still just watching her; she was pretty even with her face all blotchy from crying. _I'll beat Goyle's bloody brains in. _"Sorry, just – I hate having hiccoughs, it's such a – you don't care about that now, do you?" she babbled. "I'm sorry. It's not -"

"Yeah," he interrupted hastily, really not wanting to hear what it wasn't. _Not personal, not your fault, not your bloody fucking business to break Goyle's kneecaps however much you'd want to anymore because she's not. Not yours. Just like that, just because she says so, just because - because of no bloody reason that makes any bloody sense or has anything to bloody do with us – _"I mean, right. It's just -" He couldn't finish the thought – he had no idea what it was just. _It's just a bloody stupid waste. _

"I do like you," she said, and it sounded like an apology.

"I like you too," he responded, a little more belligerently than he'd intended. _She didn't tell me for weeks – wasn't ever going to tell me – and now it's not any of my bloody sodding business anymore, and that's why she's doing this, she's doing this just so I won't go pick a fight with Goyle. That's all. _

_So maybe if I just thrash him but good anyway she'll see there's no reason – no reason why she has to do this – _

_- unless it's not that, unless it's just that we're fighting so bloody much and there wasn't a reason for us to be together in the first place – she was just proving a point in the first place - _

"I'm sorry," Blaise said again. "It's just that – it's just the way it is, that's all," she finished with a defeated sort of shrug, voice catching on a hiccough as she did. She turned and walked away, and he just watched her go.

"My hands are going to freeze the fuck off," Draco complained, pushing Ginny head of him into the dark and empty greenhouse. "My hands are so cold they fucking hurt."

"That's what happens when you get soaked through with sleet," Ginny muttered between the chattering of her teeth. "Stop dragging the broom like that, you're going to snap twigs -"

"The broom is a fucking piece of shit," Draco snapped.

"Yes, but it's my brother's fucking – just don't, okay?" she retorted. "It's not yours."

"Right, 'cause if it were mine, it'd be even more of a fucking piece of shit," Draco shot back, tearing off his gloves and throwing them across the darkened room. "It'd be a fucking –" he ripped a boot off, and hurled that away as well. Somewhere back in the dark, leaves crunched and twigs snapped, before it landed with a thud. " – useless sodding –" the other boot went after the first "- bloody pathetic –" his arm went up to throw the broom.

"Don't!" Ginny exclaimed, grabbing for it. He let it go, sneering and stomping off into a corner, where he slouched against the wall, arms crossed. His hair fell forward over his face and dripped onto his stocking feet.

"I hate my fucking life, Weasel," Draco muttered to the floor, scuffing at the stone with a toe. "I hate it."

"We should go inside," Ginny said, wrapping her arms around herself and trying not to be unnerved. _It's dark, cold and dark and why did you have to do this, you could be inside, inside and warm, why are we out here in the cold and the dark and my hands are shaking and I'm COLD, I hate the cold, I HATE THE BLOODY COLD, why are you doing this, we don't have to be out here, we don't have to be cold, don't have to be cold – _"We're going to freeze out here."

"Thanks for caring," Draco snapped, and didn't budge. "Go ahead, go, fuck off."

_I will not be cold again, I will not be here in the cold and the dark, I will not, I am Lord Voldemort, I am the Heir of Slytherin, I am the greatest wizard who ever lived and I WILL NOT BE COLD AGAIN, I will not, I will not – _

"F-fuck off yourself," Ginny retorted, digging her gloved fingers into her arms and shivering hard. "It was your idea." _I am Lord Voldemort, I am Lord Voldemort and I will not do this again, I will not, stop it, just stop it, make it stop - _

"Right, and I'm a moron," Draco answered. "Why the bloody hell would you listen to me?"

"Stop it, I just want to go inside!" Ginny's voice raised to an uneasy, quivering shout. "I just – it's pissing him off, okay? He's scared –"

_I am Lord Voldemort! I won't be scared – I won't be scared, I won't be cold – please – _

"He's scared of the fucking dark?" Draco snipped, and then snorted derisively.

"Not the dark," Ginny snapped back. "The cold."

"Oh, that's much better," Draco sneered. "Makes him much less of a bloody fucking wanker."

_I am Lord Voldemort, I am Lord Voldemort, I am Lord Voldemort -!_

Ginny sat down on the floor and curled into a ball, trying to hold in what little warmth remained at the very center of her body. _I will not do this, you can't do this to me, I won't be cold again, I won't, I am Lord Voldemort, you pathetic little girl, just leave him, let him freeze, who bloody cares about him, get inside, get inside where it's warm you bloody pathetic piece of meat, you idiot, get inside – you can't do this, you can't do this to me, I am Lord Voldemort – _

"Weasel?" Draco's voice called out questioningly. She shivered and didn't answer; a moment later she could hear the creaking sound of movement in icy soaking clothes. Something brushed her shoulder.

She spun without even thinking of it, hand outstretched without the wand that was tucked away below layers of useless garments, a curse ready to leave her lips. "I am Lord Voldemort!" she screamed at him. "You can't – you can't make me do this again, you can't –"

He stumbled backward until he hit a large potted vine, and stopped.

"I'm sorry," Ginny whispered, and put her hand back down. "He's – I'm – it's cold."

"He's scared of the cold," Draco repeated back, incredulous and shaking.

"In – in the orphanage -" Ginny started, and choked on the words. "It was – it was always – "

"Cold," Draco finished for her, moving cautiously forward. "Take your gloves off."

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Your gloves," Draco gestured to her clutching hands, wrapped around her arms. "They're crap gloves, Weasel, might as well be Muggle, and they're soaked through and they're freezing. They're making you colder than you would be with them off."

"Why do you care?" she snapped back. "I thought I was supposed to fuck off."

"Because you're scared of the cold," he said, as if that explained.

"Not – not me –" she shook her head.

"It doesn't matter," Draco interrupted harshly. "I don't care. Whoever the fuck you are, just take your bloody gloves off."

"O-okay," she agreed, carefully uncurling enough to pry at the fingers of one glove. Her hands shook. "I suppose – I suppose one of us could just cast a warming charm -"

"Not in here, we'd make something go wonky with the plants," Draco retorted.

"But throwing your shoes at them is good for them," Ginny shot back, pulling the second glove free. "My hands aren't warmer."

"Here," Draco gestured toward himself.

"What?" Ginny asked warily.

"Give me your hands, Weasel, I'm not gonna bite them off," he sneered. She held one hand tentatively out; he took it between both of his, gently chafing.

"You're no warmer than me," she protested.

"Shut up, Weasel," he said, without real ire. "You have tiny little girl hands, you know that?"

"Well, I'm a girl," she retorted. His hands paused in their rubbing. "What? This is news to you?"

"Not exactly," he said, with a trace of wry humor that set off warning bells in her head in the moment before he leaned in towards her, his lips capturing hers. She felt a instant of numb panic, waiting for Tom's reflexive reaction, imagining herself trying to explain not only what they'd been doing out in the greenhouse, but how Draco had died of a curse that no one in this century should have known. In the next few seconds her brain registered that while his lips were freezing cold, his breath was hot; that he was still clutching her hand, his thumb now rubbing against her palm in a very distracting manner; and last but not least, Tom seemed to have no reflexes at all for this situation.

Then she broke away and ran.

"Just because it seems to be everybody else's bloody business," Blaise called out loudly as she slammed open the door to the Slytherin common room; it was just before curfew and crowded. "I thought I'd make a public announcement that I'm not dating Ron Weasley anymore."

No one said anything; chairs creaked, books were closed, people shuffled and a few looked away. Most stared. She'd splashed icy water on her face upstairs in the empty potions' lab until she was sure she wasn't blotchy anymore, but her traitorous nose was still running. She balled her hands into fists at her sides to keep herself from rubbing at it.

"I broke up with him," she went on. "Everybody happy now?" There was no response. "Good then." She stomped off past them all, ducking her head and biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt to keep from making any revealing sounds. _I will not sniffle and whimper in front of them. I will not. I will bloody well die first._

Delacroix was standing in the doorway to the girls' dorms, blocking the way.

"Move," Blaise demanded tiredly.

"You're crying," Delacroix pointed out, grinning nastily.

"And you're a fucking bitch, now get out of my way," Blaise retorted, voice catching; there were gasps from the common room. _I don't care. I just do not bloody care. Try something, right now, just try it. _For a moment Delacroix's face flushed and her round doll's eyes narrowed, and Blaise thought she just might try to hex her, but the moment passed and Delacroix just tutted as if disappointed in a recalcitrant child. She stepped sideways. The common room seemed to hold its collective breath.

_You can all just go to hell. _Blaise stomped past the gloating younger girl.

"Too little too late, Zabini," Delacroix murmured as she passed, quietly, so only Blaise would hear.

He was half asleep, lost in the wilderness between wakefulness and dreaming wherein there was still some will but no sense. He was flying out over the forbidden forest again, with Ginny on his broom behind him, but her arms had fallen limp to her sides. A part of him thought that wasn't entirely right, but to most of him it seemed like a correction – like their earlier flight had not been an accurate representation of reality, and now, half-asleep, he was being shown what had really happened.

He felt her slumped forward against his back, so he knew she was still on the broom with him, and every now and then through the cloud cover he could see one of her hands swinging sideways into his frame of view – pale, limp, and blue with cold. He couldn't turn all the way around for fear of unseating her, and while her weight at his back should logically have been warm, it wasn't. She sat against his spine like a block of ice, and he could feel the cold seeping into him, threatening to turn his fingers numb and send them both plummeting to the ground.

Then something heavy rolled across his leg.

"What the fuck-" Draco exclaimed, scrambling into a sitting position and blinking furious, feeling his stomach plummeting and his pulse racing as if he had actually fallen. He was warmer than he'd felt a moment before, and there was nothing at his back, but it took him a few nauseous seconds to realize it.

_In bed. I'm in bed, and – something just stepped on my leg. _It was brighter than it should have been; his vision had yet to catch up to the rest of him, and all he could make out was a soft pinpoint of light, midway up the bed. His wand was under his pillow, but his pillow was now under his backside.

In the length of time it took him to conclude that he both really, really wanted his wand and really, really didn't want to move, breath, or make a single sound, his vision adjusted. A pair of huge brown eyes blinked at him in the soft glow, watching dispassionately as he gathered his senses.

"Weasel, what the fuck are you doing?" he croaked out.

"I think I found something," she said, voice hushed but urgent. The school robe she had thrown on over her nightgown fell away from her arm as she thrust the diary out at him, and her skin was pale and luminous in the light of her wand. "Really, I think it's something, the writing's all slanted and he almost ripped the page, and -"

"How did you get in here?" he demanded. _There's a girl in my bed – well, on my bed. There's a girl on my bed and she wants me to read her a fucking book._

_There's a girl on my bed and it's Weasel and she wears frumpy old lady nightgowns and fuck . . why does she have to look like that .. why does she have to look like that and be so fucked up, why do I have to be so fucked up – _

_- why does this all have to be so fucked up, I'm tired, I'm just fucking tired and why couldn't she be here just to be a girl in my bed? _

She frowned, just a slight creasing of her brow as if she didn't quite remember. "I cast –a charm. Something about not being noticed, and then I just . . I told the door to open up. And it did. I'm not sure why it did that, but I knew it would."

"Anybody ever tell you that you're fucking scary, Weasel?" Draco asked, eyeing the diary held out to him.

"No," she said flatly. "Why would anybody be scared of Ginny Weasley?"

"Right," Draco sighed. _And could you possibly not refer to yourself in the third person? It makes it harder for me to ignore the fact that I'm talking to two people, maybe, and one of them is the fucking Dark Lord who's just Tom to you, and maybe just is you, and see, thinking about that makes it so much harder not to piss my pants in terror. _"Do you want me to take that, or are you going to hex my balls off if I lay a finger on it?" He nodded at the diary.

Ginny looked down at it as if surprised to see it in her outstretched hand. She jerked it back towards her body, then paused, then dropped it in his lap, open to a page filled with a desperately slanted scrawl that bore almost no resemblance to the rest of the text.

"It's okay," Ginny said aloud, though Draco thought she was speaking more to herself than to him. "It's okay. I trust you. You – you haven't done anything." She said the last in a wary, challenging tone – as if this made him an exception, for being someone who hadn't hurt her yet.

_I'm going to kill him, Weasel. I'm going to kill my father for doing this to you. To my mother. To me. To the fucking world. He's going to die slow for this. _

"You're sure?" he pressed, looking at the diary laying there atop his standard-issue school blankets – a far cry from the velvet monogrammed coverlet he'd brought to school in the fall term – and didn't want to touch it.

"I'm sure," she nodded her head rapidly, eyes full of manic zeal, huge and lost and clutching. Half of him wanted to back away, frightened and disgusted; the other half wanted to rip her nightgown off, and he wasn't sure if it was lust or just a desire to possess her. Her ordinarily pale lips were flushed, or maybe it was just the shadows. _Or maybe it's just in your head. Maybe you're just a fucking pervert and you just want to own her like a pair of gloves. _

_I won't be my father. I won't. _

He didn't want to touch the diary. Whatever it was that lit up behind her eyes, he could feel the tingling edge of it in the book, as if touching it might give him a nasty shock. _She's right. She found something. This is important, this page is important. _

_I don't want it to be. I don't fucking want this shit, okay, I never fucking asked for this, and when the fuck did she become my problem anyway – _

_- when your father did this to her. When you father might as well have just raped her and been done with it, it would have been quicker at least. _

_I'll kill him – _

_- but that's him talking too, isn't it? You don't like a thing, crush it. The whole fucking world is your fucking oyster, and if it won't open for you then you hack at it until it shatters. _

"It's okay," Ginny insisted, in the tone of the mindless faithful. He wanted to reach out and choke her for it. _Don't you sound like that, don't you EVER sound like that. Nobody fucking owns you, nobody, not this stupid fucking book and not Slytherin and not He-Who-Is-Fucking-Tom-Just-Tom – _

_- and not me. _

_Why'd I kiss her? Why'd I do that?_

_Why can't she be here just to be a girl in my bed . . why can't I just want something for wanting it and not for breaking it . . why can't I just want to touch her . . _

"It's not okay," Draco snapped back. "That's the point, right? You found a page that wasn't okay. He almost ripped the parchment."

"Yes," Ginny nodded. "But it's – it's supposed to happen this way."

"That's bullshit," Draco shot back. "That's fucking Trelawney-style bullshit."

"Please?" she whispered. "Please, just – you have to read it – I have to know this, I know it, this is what I was supposed to know -"

"Fine!" He picked up the diary, and it just felt like leather and parchment, slightly heavy – slightly heavier than such a slim book should have been. He'd noticed a long time ago that it had more pages open than it did closed, but that was nothing unusual for a magical text. "It says -" He paused, swallowed hard, read it again.

_Well, fuck. Fuck. _

"What?" Ginny demanded, crawling forward on the bed. Her nightgown gaped at the neck, enough to give him a glimpse of pale flesh inside, and it just made him feel so overwhelmed he might throw up.

"It says, 'the sun should not rise tomorrow'," Draco read. "'It does not – it does not seem like it should. Like all the sun – all the light – something to do with light, I can barely read this – every candle – something about no more light. All the lights should go out in – in mourning."

"In mourning," Ginny repeated, hushed.

"Today I have buried my wife," Draco read out, "though what remained of her was only a blackened – something – he says – all the world is so blackened and burned – all the world should burn-"

"His wife," Ginny said, eyes huge and almost rapturous. "The woman – in all the pictures – they - they burned her- the Muggles-"

"- all creation should burn if it has been left – left in the power, dominion, something like that – in the dominion of creatures who would – who would burn their own creatures – no, their own creations. Their own children."

Ginny jumped back as if stung.

"Their own children," she repeated blankly.

"And – Godric – that fool Godric, something like fool – he would allow them all to – find us, to know where we are – he would trust – trust the – bond of motherhood-"

"She was Muggleborn," Ginny said flatly, sitting back on her heels and wrapping black robes tight around her. "His wife. She was a Muggleborn. Not even a halfblood. That's what that means, isn't it? Her parents killed her. Burnt her for a witch."

"My Clariandra not yet – not cold in the ground – and he tells me to – something about faith, to have faith, he doesn't seem too keen on the idea of faith right about now – to have faith in – the goodness of creatures – all God's creatures-"

"But they killed her!" Ginny practically shouted, and across the room Goyle shifted noisily in his bed. Draco barely heard it; he barely heard Ginny. The diary had him enraptured with a thousand adoring images of a woman too beautiful to be real, laughing, sleeping, crying, an infant suckling at her breast, sprawled naked and wanton, alive – and burnt, dead in the ground. _Just a thing. Just a thing to be used and disposed of . . just a thing to fetch .. _

"Rowena has said that – only children of – old blood, or known blood, something about blood heritage – only those children should come here-"

"Rowena," Ginny repeated, disbelieving. "But – but, it was Slytherin-"

" – that we should be safe in our - cloister, or something like that, something about religious seclusion – but how can I – how can I – something about dirty, making something dirty – the memory of-"

"His wife," Ginny finished for him. "How can he dirty Clariandra's memory, by excluding Muggleborns." Her voice was hollow, vibrating like a rope stretched tight over some great dark space.

"Some other way must – some way must be found, in – solitude, secret, something about a secret – let Godric and Rowena have their quarrel – I will be the one to – to protect, keep safe, be guardian – her spirit will - fill, imbue, something like that – her spirit will return to me – for this purpose – her spirit will possess-"

'The Chamber," Ginny said, cold and final. "Her spirit will imbue the Chamber. He thought she would come back – that she would guard-"

"- new blood," Draco looked up at her, suddenly tense and ready to spring and not sure why. "The school."

"He didn't build the Chamber to purify the school of Mudbloods," Ginny said.

"No, he didn't," Draco said, closing the book and handing it back to her. She didn't take it; her arms remained curled around herself, clutching her robes like a dark shroud. "How's that for fucked up, huh?"

"He wanted it to protect them. The Chamber, and the basilisk, and everything – because the Muggles killed his wife – and she was a Mudblood -"

'Well, he did think Muggles were dangerous," Draco offered, looking at the diary laying between them on the bedspread and suddenly wishing he could forget the entire past year. _I want something to make sense again. Just something. One thing. Just one thing, to be what I thought it was. _

"But he thought it would dirty her memory, to keep Muggleborns out," Ginny argued, except that Draco had the dreadful certainty he wasn't talking to Ginny anymore. "He thought – he wanted her to return to him – to protect them, because he failed, he failed to protect her -"

"She didn't return to him, Weasel," Draco tried for derisive and failed; his voice shook. "His wife just got burnt alive and he was just a bit mental. If she was going to be a ghost he would have seen her by then."

"Not a ghost," Ginny shook her head rapidly, as if annoyed with his lack of understanding – as if that should have been obvious. "The Chamber. He wanted to bring her back to the Chamber. To build her . . to build her a new body," she blurted, eyes going round in epiphany. "Something .. more than flesh."

"Right," Draco said carefully. _This is so wrong, just wrong, just fucking wrong –_

"He didn't judge the flesh," she said, and there was the glistening of tears at the edge of her huge glowing eyes. "Didn't judge the blood."

"Weasel-" he tried to reach out uneasily. She didn't jerk back, but something stopped his hand short of touching her. It was no physical force, but something about her was wrong, deeply fundamentally wrong, and despite his newfound good intentions, he thought a herd of hippogriffs couldn't have dragged him one inch closer to her in that moment. _Come on Weasel, snap out of it. Stop looking so – so –_

_- dead. Stop looking so damned dead. Fucking hell. _

"That's what I needed to know," she whispered. "That's why the Chamber opened for me. To show me this. To judge me."

_Oh fuck, oh fucking hell, stop it, just fucking stop it – _

"Come off it, Weasel," he snapped out, though his voice broke midway through. "He was just-"

"Goodbye," she said emotionlessly.

"What?" he snapped back. "You're just leaving now? What the fuck, Weasel -" But she wasn't listening; she crawled backward off the bed, slowly and carefully as if wounded, and disappeared through the bed curtains. It took him a moment to regain the ability to do more than stare at the space where Ginny had been, and he scrambled out of bed after her. The diary was left where it lay. Her robes swayed around her thin legs as she padded dreamily across the room; her feet were bare, he saw.

"Weasel!" he hissed, afraid of waking the body in the other bed across the room. She did not turn around, did not answer.

_Goodbye, _whispered in his head as she slipped soundlessly through the door, as quiet as if she had never existed at all.

_Goodbye – oh fuck. Oh fucking hell. _

"You are an insufferable nag," Severus said dryly, making it a statement of fact, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"I'm not nagging," Willow protested. "I'm bringing you totally nag-free tea."

"In the middle of the night, while I am patrolling corridors," Severus pointed out. "And this sudden solicitousness has nothing to do with your oft-voiced opinion that I get too little sleep." He took the teacup despite his complaints, and sipped, scowling all the while.

"Not a thing," she insisted. "Would I be bringing you caffienated beverages if I wanted you to . ." she trailed off as they rounded a corner; Dumbledore was standing there, and he was talking to another man. The second man was in Muggle clothing, a suit and trousers of some brownish material, hair an indeterminate medium hue in the hazy darkness, shorter than the Headmaster but still tall, just slightly broad across the shoulders but of otherwise average build – and something about him made her stop, and stare, and wonder why she thought she knew the back of that head.

Then both men turned, Dumbledore catching Willow's eye briefly. The look he gave her seemed to carry some significance, some meaning that was lost on her as her gaze slid past him to the other man's face, and she was suddenly glad that Severus had taken the teacup without too much arguing. _If I were still holding it, I'd have dropped it. I'd have dropped it and it would have shattered into little bitty pieces and gotten hot tea all over our shoes. _

"Giles?"


	31. One Thing

Title: One Thing

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: "Truth is just like time, it catches up and it just keeps going." – Dar Williams, 'Cool as I Am'

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal, username cissasghost - It occasionally contains fic-related ramblings.

* * *

"Weasel!" Draco hissed, out into the empty dungeon hallway. The light from his wand provided a long slanting shaft of light, and outside that dim glow, all was impenetrable darkness. There was a chill draft coming down off the ceiling, cold enough to raise the hairs on his arms.

No one answered him, but he thought he heard the faintest pattering of footsteps down the hall. He'd thrown a robe over his shoulders and stuffed his feet into the nearest available slippers – Goyle's, he thought – before following her.

"Come on, Weasel!" he raised his voice just slightly. He thought the footsteps paused, but then they continued.

Fucking goddamned bloody – he let the door slip shut behind him, falling into the frame with a grinding sound that made him jump, ridiculously loud against the otherwise absolute silence. His own slipper-clad feet made no noticeable sound.

A few feet further down the hallway the light from his wand picked out a silhouette; just a dark shape, vanishing around a corner. Draco picked up his pace as much as he could without stepping right out of the too-large slippers, his robes catching on his pajamas and tangling around his legs. He stumbled to a stop, swearing in a vicious whisper that echoed down the corridors, before a set of stairs.

He shone the light up the steps; Ginny was paused there, looking down at him. Her eyes reflected a colorless dark in the blue luminescence. _She doesn't look human. _

Why are you following her, anyway? She's probably just going back to bed, back to her room, and you're acting like a fucking psycho –

- she doesn't look fucking human, she doesn't look fucking alive.

"Weasel?" he called up to her in a harsh whisper.

She stared.

"Did you go fucking deaf?" he demanded, his voice rising slightly.

She turned and walked away.

Fucking hell, bloody fucking hell, why couldn't she just be going back to bed? Why does this have to be so fucked up, why does everything have to be so fucked up?

He followed.

* * *

"Giles?"

He turned, stared, whipped off his glasses and stared more.

"You know, I can explain," Willow blurted out in a rush. "About the leaving, and the not leaving a note, and all the other . . stuff . . and, okay, I can't really explain some of that, but I'm really, really sorry and I'm better now and . . how much already got explained?"

"Quite a lot," he said coldly, polishing his glasses and returning them to his face; sharp, precise movements that let her know he'd moved past surprise and into his unique brand of low-simmering fury. Dumbledore had moved a little away, and was saying nothing. _I'm sinking or swimming on my own here._

"Oh." Continuing to meet his gaze required a conscious effort. "Um, I mentioned about being really sorry, right?" _I sound like I'm fifteen again._

"You can explain on the plane," he responded coldly.

"Wait, what – plane?" Willow yelped. "No plane. There will be no plane. I can't just leave!"

The glare he gave her was eloquent in its derisive irony.

"Look, I know," she tried, sucking in a deep breath and trying to remember that she was, in fact, no longer in high school. _I'm an adult, I'm a professor for pete's sake, and he's just Giles and why do I owe him an explanation anyway? He left too! _

Though not in the middle of the night while stoned after breaking Dawnie's arm.

Oh God breathe, remember how to breathe, you can do this.

I'm not going back there, I'm not, I can't, I won't –

- when did I start feeling like that? Like I escaped?

Like things are making a kind of sense and I'm actually caught up and dealing for the first time in six years – except I guess I'm not dealing as well as I thought I was.

I can't deal with going back.

"What I did was wrong, and childish, and I'm sorry," Willow continued on, voice a little higher and squeakier than she'd intended, but level. "But it was the right thing for me to go, I needed to go, and I have responsibilities here now -"

"YOU HAD RESPONSIBILITIES THERE!" Giles suddenly exploded, his cool reserve snapping so abruptly that Willow actually flinched and took a step back. "You were trusted, others relied upon you -"

"You mean you relied upon me!" she snapped back, aware of hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and willing them back. _Not now, not in front of Dumbledore and Severus and not ever, ever, ever in front of Giles. _"You mean you left and you relied on me to be there to pick up your slack!"

"You arrogant, presumptuous child!" he shouted, all incredulous indignation. "I left because it was what was best for Buffy, you left because you were ashamed of your behavior, and well you should have been!"

"How do you know why I left?" Willow demanded. "Did you ask? 'Cause if you did, I missed it! I don't remember anybody saying just now, 'Willow, what was so awful that you just had to-'"

"I do not bloody well care what was so awful!" he cut her off. "Do you suppose everyone else was having an easy time of it, dealing with the aftermath of your colossal, incomprehensible arrogance? Do you take no responsibility for your part in creating the situation you fled?"

"I did the best I could!" Willow shouted back. "We all thought she was in some hell dimension, and don't tell me you thought anything different, you never said anything different, you never did anything except train that stupid robot and try to pretend like she wasn't even dead -"

"You cannot play god and then run away like some - some distraught adolescent!" He seemed at a loss for words, lacking any insult of sufficient magnitude to what she'd done.

"I was a distraught adolescent!" she retorted, feeling the tears spill over and powerless to stop them.

"You were twenty-one!"

"You were forty-something!" she shot back. "What's your excuse?"

"I don't need one!" he insisted furiously. "I didn't run off in the dead of night! Do you have any comprehension of what you've put us all through? Tara attempted a locator spell to find you, Tara who you all but raped-" Willow flinched, felt what seemed like all the blood in her body rushing into her face, and thought she just might be sick. "- that's how bloody desperate they were, she was willing to find you, and she couldn't. Of course, that makes far more sense now, knowing you've been here, the wards here are all but impenetrable, but at the time the only conclusion we could reach was that you'd either left this dimension or died. Xander -"

"Wait," Willow blurted out, his words suddenly clicking back in whatever small portion of her brain was beginning to recover from her shock. "You said the spell didn't work. The locator spell. It didn't work."

"And Tara has been going half mad with worry, though Lord knows why after what you'd done to her," Giles ranted on, "not to mention with the added responsibility your disappearance forced her onto her shoulders -"

"Then how did you find me?" Willow asked. The entire situation had narrowed down to the pinhole awareness of that one discordant fact – locator spells didn't work in the vicinity of Hogwarts, and yet, there he was.

"You walked around a bloody corner, that's how!" Giles retorted sharply.

"How did you find the school," she clarified, not quite believing that she was having the nerve to question him. _You should be cowering and begging forgiveness. _

Except that something's off here. Something's not right.

The locator spell didn't work. So how . .

"That is irrelevant to the bloody situation!" he snapped. "Though if you must know, I didn't find the school at all, considering I already knew precisely where it was – I merely could not conceive of you being in it. And long enough to purchase a new wardrobe, apparently!" He gestured furiously at her attire – _the dark grey robes, Severus likes dark colors – why am I thinking that right now – _"I don't suppose it occurred to you to ponder what might have been happening to the friends you abandoned, while you were perusing Diagon Alley? Did it ever, for a moment, cross your mind what it meant to leave Buffy in her weakened state -"

"Diagon Alley," Willow parroted dumbly, feeling rather as if she'd just been hit in the back of the head by a freight train.

That's silly, I don't know what being hit by a freight train feels like, not that anyone really does, because everyone who has been is dead, so, not really possible to know, and oh my fucking God, he knew. He knew all along, all this time, he knew.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, were your robes purchased in Hogsmeade?" Giles voice was all acidic sarcasm, as enraged as she'd ever seen him. _I used to be scared of him when he was angry. _

When did that stop?

He knew. He knew and he never told us, never told me, I never knew there were places like this and a whole world like this and people who could have helped me, helped us, who could have . . oh God my brain is going to explode with all the could-haves –

"Perhaps this conversation would be better completed in the morning," Dumbledore suggested tactfully, into the sudden silence. "Now that you have ascertained the whereabouts of your missing witch, might it not be wise to -"

"Thank you, no," Giles bit out, interrupting the older man. "We'll be leaving immediately."

"No, we won't," Willow said flatly, though some glimmer of feeling beyond shock and shame was beginning to simmer in the pit of her stomach.

"Yes, we bloody well will!" Giles shouted. "You took on responsibilities, damn it, and you will bloody well -"

"You knew," Willow interrupted quietly. "About all of this, the Wizarding world, you knew and you never said anything." The slow burning sensation in her gut was reaching a boil, hissing its way up her spine, filling her head like a scalding fog. "You never told me."

"That is entirely beside the -"

She heard the sharp crack of her palm meeting his cheek before she was even aware of having moved; there was no conscious decision involved. One moment he was standing there berating her; the next, he was stumbling back a step, his glasses clattering noisily to the stone floor, a stunned expression and a bright red hand-print on his face. Willow just stared, at him, and then at her still upraised hand. For a long moment everyone and everything seemed to hold its collective breath, and she could feel the force she'd put behind the blow in the tension of her arm, the way she was all off balance, needing to lurch a step forward to keep from falling.

Then a hand settled on her shoulder, steadying her; Severus. She'd forgotten he was even there.

"Well," said Dumbledore in a strident sort of voice, "I believe -"

Willow never heard what he believed; she turned and ran.

* * *

Draco lost track of Ginny somewhere above the Charms classrooms, though it was very clear by that point that she was not going to Gryffindor tower. After roughly twelve staircases – he hadn't been counting at first – and innumerable stretches of hallway, Draco's body was reminding him rather forcefully that it was the middle of the night, and cold, and he'd gotten no more than a few hours' sleep when she woke him. There were no more stairs up from this floor, and she had been going consistently upward from the time they left the Slytherin dorm, so unless she'd been purposefully leading him on a fruitless chase, there was nowhere left for her to have gone.

Except, she is gone.

Something nearby was making a faint metallic tinkling sound, like tiny brass bells, though Draco couldn't fathom why there'd be bells in the Charms hallway. _Except to make that really fucking creepy noise, because this isn't bad enough as is, really. It needed odd noises, just as the finishing touch. _

And it's bloody cold up here, colder than just the next floor down – like someone opened a door – except there are no doors up here that go outside and the windows are all charmed and she can't have gone out of one of the bloody windows, they're all arrowslits, she wouldn't fit, except in the classrooms – but those have glass in them and I would have heard that and besides, the classrooms are all locked –

Remembering the ease with which she'd entered the dorms, he checked the nearest classroom door just in case. The knob barely jiggled – still quite locked. 

She could have locked it behind her, I guess. If she didn't want to be followed.

If she didn't want to be followed, why'd she keep stopping and looking back? Why'd she let me keep up? She could have lost me any time she wanted, if she really wanted –

- but if she wanted to be followed, why'd she just keep going?

Where in the bloody fucking hell did she go? What's so goddamned special about this floor, anyway? Not the classrooms, not that there's anything exciting about Charms classrooms anyway, but I can't think of what else – there's nothing else above this except the –

- you are an absolute sodding moron, you really are.

Draco pointed his wand upward at the ceiling, looking for a hatch; there was one not ten feet down the hall from him, and the latch was dangling loose, clinking forlornly against the metal ring that held it.

* * *

"I believe - well, I believe that could have been handled better," Dumbledore finished, frowning after Willow before turning his disapproving glare on Mr. Giles. The words were clearly not what they would have been had Willow not run, and Severus felt a trickle of malicious glee at Dumbledore's change of tone; he had been on the receiving end of it often enough himself. The Watcher just stared down the hallway, looking stunned. Dumbledore bent and retrieved Mr. Giles' glasses; the younger man made no move to take them.

"She slapped me," he finally blurted out. "She slapped me!"

"What keen powers of observation," Severus commented dryly. "Appropriate to a Watcher, I suppose."

"Severus," Dumbledore snapped sharply. Giles blinked, took his glasses from the Headmaster and began polishing them furiously.

* * *

Somewhere between the dungeon and the rooftop Ginny had lost her school robe, and was wearing only her oversized flannel nightgown. It billowed out around her, revealing bare feet tucked tight against her thighs with toenails turning a deep, bruised blue, visible even from a distance. Her skin was colorless, almost paler than the nightgown. 

"Weasel, what the fucking hell are you doing?" Draco shouted, slipping and lurching across the roof towards her. The sound of his voice seemed unnaturally loud in the darkness, though logically he knew with the wind blowing as it was, she might not have even heard him. The edge of the roof was far enough off that there was no real danger of falling, but he felt almost delirious with exhaustion and fading adrenaline, and the fear that the wind would just pick him up and sweep him away was very, very real. Drifts of fine powdery snow washed and swirled over a thick layer of ice that offered no purchase at all.

Ginny didn't respond. Her hair was blowing in an angry riot around her head; it was the only thing with any color to it. She made no move to contain it, though he could picture it blowing into her eyes, her nose, catching on pale lips – the image of her lips purple with the cold and cracking leapt suddenly into his brain.

She's only been out here a few minutes. Can't have been longer than that, and she was walking up all those stairs before that, so she'd have started out hot, started out with her blood pumping – and that's got to be worth something, like playing Quidditch in the snow, you don't want to hold still or it'll get to you, but if you're moving –

She wasn't moving, though; she looked like a statue draped in cloth. _Like someone tried to cover her up, to protect her from the weather. Like you cover furniture and things when you're going to go away, so they won't get dusty . . like someone put her away up here and forgot all about her. _

It's cold. It's fucking cold.

"Weasel!" he said sharply, stumbling the last few steps towards her, almost stepping out of his stolen slippers. His feet ached with the cold, his skin burning. _I'd kill for a good pair of boots right now. _

Aren't you planning to?

No – no, not for me, not for all that stupid useless shit, for my mother, for Weasel – Ginny –

- but it's boots you think of, boots and shoes and people laughing and not being a Malfoy anymore, and how nothing's funny, and nothing makes sense, and that's when it's clearest, isn't it? It's nothing to do with her, and it's not going to help your mother, now is it? Because she's -

"Will you fucking answer me?" Draco demanded, grabbing her shoulder. His feet went out from under him when he leaned forward, and he fell to his knees, a wordless pained shout escaping his lips as his kneecaps impacted the ice. There was a sharp hollow crack, and the wind caught it away.

Like the opposite of an echo. Like . . like the night and the snow and the cold all just eat sound.

Like it's going to swallow me whole. Swallow me alive and I'll fall and never stop.

Fucking hell, stop that, just stop that shit. It's just a fucking roof in the fucking snow and it's not –

She turned her head towards him, her face half-obscured by her blowing hair. Her eyes seemed to sit in deep purple pits, her lips white, and when she moved them, a thin line of crimson blossomed in the middle of her lower lip. Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips, smearing the blood.

"You should go inside," she said, voice hoarse with the cold but otherwise normal.

"Yeah, you think?" he snapped back. "Come on -" He tried to pull her to her feet, but she shrugged his hand off and wouldn't budge.

"Weasel, come on, it's fucking cold," he protested. "Couldn't we have this little breakdown somewhere warmer?"

"No," Ginny answered, emotionless, not responding to his jab.

"Weasel -"

"I won't fight," she announced flatly. "I'm letting it win."

"Letting what win?" Draco demanded, crouching down again beside Ginny. Her hair blew into his face, and he snatched it impatiently away, glaring at her profile. "That didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense, Weasel."

"It wasn't the basilisk's fault," she answered.

"Right," Draco said; the sensation of weightless nausea was becoming overwelming, the temptation to run for the door – to run all the way back to the dungeon and crawl back into bed and pull the curtains – was becoming far more real than their one-sided conversation. "Weasel, you're gonna freeze out here."

"I know," Ginny responded with flat equanimity.

"That's the point, huh?" Draco snapped. "Haven't got the nerve to just slice your wrists?" _I'm going to kill you, Father. You're going to die in the cold and the dark, just like this. Just like this . ._

"I have to let it win," she insisted, and there was the first hint of feeling to the words. She turned to him, her eyes catching his, seeming to will him to understand. "Don't you get it? The basilisk wasn't a monster."

"Okay, basilisk not a monster," Draco repeated impatiently; his nose was running, and he had the horrible, disgusted feeling that the drip was freezing somewhere just above his lip. He didn't want to let go of her hair to wipe it away, though, and his other hand held his wand. If he wiped his face with that hand, he'd be all but shoving the light in her face, and he wasn't sure how well that would go over. _We're going to blow away – blow away and be caught in a drift and they won't even find us until spring. _"Check, one poor misunderstood basilisk, got it. Want to have a funeral for it?"

"Harry was the monster," Ginny whispered, as if in confession. "But that wasn't his fault, either."

"Not Potter's fault," Draco said back, utterly lost. "Fuck it, Weasel, come on -"

"Everyone's the monster, see?" she explained, with a hint of the zealous fervor that had been in her voice before when she was begging him to read her the diary. _Should have burned the fucking thing. _"Everyone thinks they're the hero, but they're not. They're only saving their own world. Everyone is their own world and everyone's the hero and everyone's the monster, it's just – it's just a matter of where you're sitting, and it doesn't mean anything, it doesn't matter at all -"

"We could be sitting somewhere warmer," Draco interrupted desperately. "Come on, Weasel – I thought you were afraid of the cold." _I'm letting it win._

"It has to stop," Ginny said insisted, voice dropped to a nearly inaudible whisper. "It never stops, it's never over, and it has to be. It just has to be, and I can make it. I can make it end. I can stop – stop trying to remake the world because it shouldn't be saved and it won't get better and it should just end, it should just be over -"

"Well it's not going to end like this," Draco cut her off hoarsely. "I'm not letting you -"

"You can't stop me," she said calmly, and turned away.

"I don't fucking care," he shouted back, yanking her hair to turn her face back to him. "You look at me, you understand? Don't you fucking dare think you're gonna just go – just go and leave me here -"

"I said goodbye," she said, as if that were perfectly reasonable. _Like she doesn't owe me anything. _

She doesn't.

I don't care, I don't fucking care –

"You should go inside," she went on in that maddeningly level voice.

"You're not fucking doing this, Weasel," he repeated. "This isn't going to happen."

She didn't answer, except to reach up and touch his hand, the one gripping her hair like a lifeline. It went numb and dropped away, and he was powerless to prevent it. She turned her head away.

"Weasel -" he tried to grab for her again, but found that it was like trying to hold water between his fingers; his hands just slid away from her. "Fuck, Ginny – look, okay, I can't make you, point fucking made."

Ginny didn't respond.

"Weasel – Ginny – this is bloody pointless," Draco protested; there was a petulant, panicked whine to his voice that he loathed. _That's how I used to sound, how I always used to sound, talking to Father or Snape or anyone who I thought could get me anything and why did I think that? Why couldn't I hear myself before? I sound fucking pathetic, fucking useless –_

"I'm not going inside," he pronounced. "If you think I'm just going to leave you out here like this, you're out of your fucking mind. Of course, you are out of your fucking mind, so maybe you do think that, but you can stop it. I'm not -"

"I could make you," she interrupted, still facing straight ahead.

"Yeah, you probably could," he conceded, sitting back on his heels in the snow beside her; his feet had gone from painful to numb, and his arms and legs were beginning to cramp with the cold. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. "You could probably do whatever the fuck you want and nobody could stop you, so why are you doing this?"

"To make it end," she repeated. "That's all I want. I want it to stop."

"You're not stopping it," Draco argued. "You're stopping you." She turned at that; the smear of blood was still there on her lip, but it had darkened, a deep purple slash against her horrible paleness. _This can't keep up, she's too cold, this can't just go on, have to get her inside soon or – _

- can't you even think it? Are you too much of a chickenshit little coward to even think it?

You can't leave me here. You can't leave me here alone with nothing and nothing makes sense and you're the only fucking thing that makes any fucking sense – the only fucking good thing, the only thing that's not just a heap of shit and the only thing I don't want to just fucking burn down and you can't – you can't –

- I can't without you.

"It's the same thing," Ginny insisted. "Me – it – it's all the same, there's – there's nothing in my head that's good, nothing that's worth it -"

"Bullshit," Draco snapped harshly. "That's fucking bullshit, Weasel. So the world sucks -"

"My world," Ginny cut him off. "My world is horrible and cold and dead and freezing and it should end. Don't you understand, I thought I could make it better, I thought I could make it all like I thought it ought to be but I'm wrong, I was wrong, I'm wrong and I shouldn't exist -"

"No, you're -" He reached for her, and his hand slid away again. "Damn it, Weasel, stop that!"

"It'll be over soon," she said, in a tone that he thought was meant to reassure herself. "It'll just . . it'll just . . it'll just roll over me and it'll be dark and quiet and over." Her voice shook, and he realized for the first time that for all her apparent calm and resignation, she was petrified. "I should have let it before. I should have just let it win, the first time, back at the very beginning, in the orphanage, I shouldn't have fought, I should have just let it win. It would have been better."

"It wouldn't. It – look, do you want me to beg?" Draco asked angrily. He had to keep his fists balled at his sides to stop himself from just grabbing for her, no matter how useless a gesture he knew it would be. "Please, okay? Please, don't do this."

There was no reaction.

"All your sodding brothers would miss you, all two dozen or however many of them there are," he offered. "And blame themselves and go around sniveling and wailing and being fucking pathetic, did you think of that?"

Nothing.

"Did you think of how fucking pathetic and desperate I am right now to make an argument involving your wanking git of a brother? The one that's in my year, Ron. I can't stand the self-righteous little bastard, and if he was so devastated he just went and threw himself in the lake, I really wouldn't mind. Might brighten my day a bit, actually," Draco ranted. "But I thought you might feel differently on the subject, so that's why I'm bringing it up."

She sat still as stone. _Frozen._

"Okay, right, fuck that thought," he snapped furiously. "I suppose that rules out pleading your Mum and Dad's case, too, huh? 'Cause you'd kill them. They've got no lives, Weasel, your Dad's a pathetic little two-bit bureaucrat with delusions of grandeur 'cause he got one fucking bill passed, and I don't even know what your Mum does all day. I figure they've got to more or less live for you lot – you and your brothers – because I can't see why else they'd keep on getting up in the morning."

Nothing.

"Are you listening to me?" he demanded. "Your Mum's gonna slit her wrists in the bathtub if you do this. You getting a mental image on that one, Weasel?"

"My mother's dead," she responded flatly, and he jumped; having grown accustomed to her stillness and silence, even that whisper was startling. "She died three days after I was born."

What little warmth was left in the center of his body seemed to drain away at that; ice crawled with nimble fingers up his spine, little frozen tendrils seeming to creep right into his brain.

"Oh," he said, dumbly, tongue gone thick and unwieldy in his mouth with the sudden ratcheting up of his state of panicked terror to previously unimagined levels. "Right. You're – you're Voldemort." _You're not, you're Weasel-girl, Ginny, you're a Gryffindor and your hair looks like tomato soup and I'd bet anything you're a virgin and you've never even cheated on an exam and when the fucking hell – when the fucking hell did you turn into the thing I breathed for – _

You can't do this. You can't do this to me.

"J-just Tom," she corrected, in a voice that suggested oceans of contained tears, but her face was impassive. "Lord Voldemort – Lord Voldemort isn't real. I just made him up, because – because Tom was so scared, he was so scared and so little and I couldn't – I couldn't -"

The pitch and sibilance of her voice wavered, rolled, and snapped back again, all in the same sentence. '_I' and then 'him' and then 'I' again. _Draco felt dizzy.

"Right. Tom." He swallowed hard. "So you're not impressed with arguments involving the Weasley family, then."

"They don't know me," she said. "They would hate me."

Myrtle –

- might not be the best person to bring up right now, considering he killed her.

Fucking hell, I don't know how to do this, I'm no fucking good that this, how the hell am I supposed to know what to say?

"Well, I guess that leaves me," he said finally. Her eyes slid sideways, watching him carefully. "My mother's dead too, you know."

"I know." She turned away again. "Because of me. To stop me -"

"Not fucking you!" he snapped. "Voldemort, and you just said Voldemort's not real or you're not really Voldemort or what-fucking-ever, point being, there's somebody else going around by that name and it's not you."

"I won't become that," she said.

"Good to hear," he retorted. "I'm really not a fan; tend to think he's due for a good eviscerating. Possibly drawing and quartering, though that requires more in the way of preparation and he's got this nasty habit of slipping away, so maybe a nice quick evisceration would be the better way to go. You have an opinion on that?"

"Freezing," she said quietly.

"Oh, right, of course, freezing," Draco snarled. "You're not him, Weasel."

"Tom," she insisted.

"Okay, you're not him, Tom," Draco snapped. She frowned.

"Yes – yes I am," she argued. "Tom – Tom Marvolo Riddle is Voldemort. You know that."

"Yeah, got that," he answered back, "But Tom-in-Weasel-Girl's-head is just Tom."

She blinked at him.

"You're not Voldemort," he insisted. "All the stuff he did -"

"I killed Myrtle," she blurted, and her chin raised just a little off her knees – Draco clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, willing himself to show no reaction, not to give away the giddy spurt of triumph he felt. _But that's her. That stubborn little chin tilt thing – that's her, her goddamned bloody righteous Gryffindor chin – _

Stay with me here, Weasel, come on, stay with me.

"So go tell her you're real sorry," he snapped. "I think she'd take the apology, she seems to like you. All of you, both of you, whatever. She knows who's making himself at home in your head and she still likes you."

"She doesn't understand," Ginny shook her head furiously, and when her hair blew into her mouth, she spit it out. _Stay with me. _"She doesn't think I'm – that he's-"

"That you're Tom and Tom's you," Draco finished for her. "So explain it to her. Use little words, she's a Hufflepuff."

"I can't-"

"Well why the hell not?" he cut her off. "That's the part I'm not getting here, Tom, 'cause last I checked you were fucking scary powerful, and brilliant, and Ginny Weasley's nobody to scoff at either, you know. Has a hell of a mean kick." She glared. "And you know what, you told me not to go home, and did you think that was going to be fucking easy?" he demanded. "Oh yeah, why didn't I think of that before? I could just not get on the bloody train!" He smacked his forehead in mock bewilderment. "Gee, I must be bloody stupid, not to have thought of that, that would have solved everything -"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted, and hugged her knees tighter. "It was stupid, I know it wouldn't have fixed anything, I just thought -"

"It wasn't bloody stupid," Draco shouted. "And it was my bloody goddamned fucking choice, whether it would have solved one fucking thing or not, it was my chickenshit wanking cowardly choice to just go along like – like a fucking bull with a ring through it's nose, like they already had me, and they didn't, and you were the only fucking person who saw that and the only goddamned fucking person, including me, who thought it was worth doing anything about! The only one, Weasel! Or Tom, or whoever the fuck, whoever the fuck is sitting right fucking here in front of me, you're the only person -"

"Your mother -" she tried to say, and she was leaning a little towards him, uncurling just slightly, and trembling.

"My mother is DEAD!" he screamed in her face. "She DIED and I didn't even KNOW her and she was just stoned or drunk or not fucking THERE all the time and I never even BOTHERED and she DIED for me and you CAN'T FUCKING DO THIS!"

"I'm sorry-" Her voice was cracking, and she was reaching towards him. He grabbed her, and his hands contacted flesh this time, freezing and limp and pliant beneath his clutching hands. The movement caused feeling to run back into his fingers, bright sharp shards of burning pain. Draco hauled her roughly forward, dragged her along the ice, and she didn't resist. Her hands found his face, icy, clumsy, grasping touches, and he realized he'd been crying.

"You want one good reason?" he shouted into her face. "Me, okay? You can't do this to me, I need you, I need you here to make this make some sense and I'm going to make it better, I'm going to, you can't do this before I've had a chance – fuck that, you can't do this EVER, I'm going to fix it, I'm going to fix it – Ginny -"

"You can't fix it," she choked out, shaking her head wildly, hands slithering around his neck and pulling tight. Her forehead bumped his, her lips close enough for him to feel her breath, so hot it almost burned and then screaming painful cold in between, as the moisture froze on his lips. "You can't – I can't – I don't know how to fix it-"

Draco let go of her shoulders to wrap his arms around her, dragging her into his lap, pressing her as close to him as she could go without actually slipping inside his skin. Her face slipped away from his, her hair catching in the wetness freezing on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed into his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"We'll figure it out, okay?" He'd turned his head toward her, curling around her, and the words were nearly lost in her hair, barely coherent. "Just don't – don't fucking do that again, okay? I need – you can't -"

"I know, I – me too," she breathed, voice hitching, so quiet he couldn't be entirely sure he actually heard the words, or whether he just felt them in her lips against his skin.

* * *

Restless tonight  
'Cause I wasted the light  
Between both these times  
I drew a really thin line  
It's nothing I planned  
And not that I can  
But you should be mine  
Across that line

If I traded it all  
If I gave it all away for one thing  
Just for one thing  
If I sorted it out  
If I knew all about this one thing  
Wouldn't that be something

- Finger Eleven, 'One Thing'


	32. Warmth

Title: Warmth

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: "The place where you hold me is dark in a pocket of truth" - Indigo Girls, 'Virginia Woolf'

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - username cissasghost - it occasionally contains fic-related ramblings.

* * *

"What the devil are you doing?"

Willow jumped, startled; Severus was standing just inside the doorway to Hogwarts' kitchens, puzzled and scowling.

"Baking cookies," she answered simply, and then looked away and back to her task.

Don't think, don't think about it, eggs go in next - where'd I put the eggs -

"Baking cookies," he parroted incredulously. "At three in the morning, in the main kitchens. I realize this is perhaps not the most significant issue raised by the situation, but what was wrong with your own kitchenette?"

"It was too small," she explained, cracking an egg on the side of her mixing bowl; a tiny fragment of shell slid into the dough, and she muttered and swore under her breath. "I wanted to make a few different kinds - I'm starting with chocolate chip 'cause everybody likes those, but I think I remember him really liking the peanut butter, but I'm not positive on that, that might have been Xander, so -" She fished the bit of eggshell out with one finger, balanced it on her fingertip long enough to flick it into a nearby sink. "- better safe than sorry, right?"

"And by "him", you mean Mr. Giles?" Severus guessed, as Willow added flour, baking soda and salt to the mixture and stirred. The spoon stuck, and the bowl nearly scooted off the counter.

"I need chocolate chips," she answered after several moments of frustrated struggle with her ingredients, wiping her hands on her robes and eyeing the dough critically. "Or - no, not yet. More flour, I think. Do you bake? I mean, you're a Potions Master, you should technically be really good at baking, I'd think -"

"And why, exactly, are you baking cookies for the man you slapped not an hour ago?" Severus pressed.

"Because he's Giles," Willow managed in a tiny voice. "I slapped Giles. I - chocolate chips. No, flour. You're distracting me!" She frowned and jabbed a finger in his general direction, before grabbing the bag of flour and, finding it light and nearly empty, up-ended it over the mixing bowl. The result was a powdery white mushroom cloud that had her backing away in a fit of coughing and sneezes.

"I always do that!" she exclaimed, waving a hand before her and advancing determinedly on the bowl, sniffling as she plowed her hands into the mixture and began working the flour in. She glanced sideways at Severus, who was watching her with a very confused, disbelieving expression on his face.

"I know, hands," she grimaced. "But it gets too thick for spoons; if you mess up the flour and you have to add more later it's just much easier to just dive right in and get your hands dirty - I mean, my hands aren't dirty or anything, they're just doughy, I washed them before I started. So, not as gross as it looks, really."

"Amazingly enough, I was not contemplating cookie dough," Severus drawled.

"Oh," Willow said, and nothing else; she stared assessingly down at the dough for a long moment, before beginning to scrape it from her fingers.

"Mr. Giles has left," Severus told her.

"He did?" Willow spun, distraught. "But - cookies - I wasn't done with the cookies -"

"I suppose you'll have to mail them," Severus suggested dryly.

"It's not the same," Willow protested. _I think that was sarcasm, but I'm gonna just ignore that now. _"But, better than nothing, I guess. I think it's chocolate-chip time now - I couldn't find those before."

"Dare I ask the purpose behind this?" Severus asked.

"I told you," Willow muttered distracted, stalking over to the pantry and pushing the door open with an elbow, her hands still irredeemably dough-covered. "Giles -"

" - would benefit greatly from the opportunity to scrub the third floor corridor after one of that infernal ghost's tantrums, under the supervision of Mr. Filch. Unfortunately, Dumbledore concurred with Mr. Giles that I lacked the authority to assign him detention."

"You tried to give Giles a detention?" Willow squeaked, unsure whether to be horrified or to burst into hysterical laughter at the mental image Severus' words produced. She frowned and opted for neither, instead diving back into her task, trying awkwardly to shift around the contents of the pantry with the still-clean backs of her hands. "You didn't need to do that - I mean, it's nice you were all irritated on my behalf and all, but there's some stuff that . . well, some of what he said was sort of . . right." She scrunched her eyes shut a moment, sucked in a breath through her nose and forced the tremor in her voice back down. "The pantry is the logical place to keep chocolate chips, isn't it? And I know they have them somewhere here 'cause we had chocolate chip muffins last week, and we've had them before too, they're sorta a rotating staple, alternating with the blueberry, which makes it sorta interesting 'cause they look similar at a glance and I don't like blueberries, so it's risky business at breakfast sometimes, you know, but what I'm getting at is that they must keep -"

"I'm gathering, from this little effort, that you wish a reconciliation," Severus cut her off. "If you are thinking of leaving -"

"I'm not," Willow hastily assured him.

"Good," Severus answered shortly, and then paused, seeming to consider his next words. "Do not expect me to ever forgive that man for the way he spoke to you. A slap was the least of what he deserved, but -"

"Sev-" Willow tried to interrupt.

" - but if, for some reason utterly incomprehensible to me, you actually wish to see him again in the future, I would strongly suggest you meet elsewhere. And do not tell me about it in advance, as I have no intention of leaving you alone in his company."

"Don't," Willow snapped.

"Don't what?" he retorted.

"Don't - be like that," she muttered. "All like I'm poor little victim-girl or something -"

"I was not implying any fault on -"

"Well, you should have been," Willow shot back. "It's just - there's stuff, okay? Stuff I didn't tell you about, though I was going to, it just - well it doesn't exactly come up in conversation, but it'd make tonight make a little more sense, and I shouldn't have slapped him and he's Giles and if you can't understand that -" She paused, took in his implacable expression, and sighed. "Then just don't, I guess, you don't have to, but don't be like that."

Severus said nothing; Willow gave up on the pantry and moved on to the nearest cabinet.

"You know there is a small army of wailing house elves just beyond those doors?" Severus commented after a long and awkward pause, folding his arms across his chest and nodding to some vague point behind him. Willow banged the cabinet door shut, realized she'd left a wide smear of flour across the wood, and grabbed frantically for a rag to wipe it away. There was none, so she used her sleeve, before moving on to the next cabinet. She was careful to wrap her now flour-coated sleeve around her hand when she opened this one.

"I told them they could take the night off," she murmured back distractedly; the cabinet contained extracts and liquors of every flavor imaginable, and a few she really didn't want to imagine, but no chocolate chips. She slammed it shut. "Don't they need to sleep sometime anyway?"

"One would think," Severus allowed. "I've never considered it."

"Well, you should," Willow snapped; the next cabinet was full of spices, what looked like hundreds of little jars full of greens and browns and yellows, odd shapes and sizes without labels. _I guess they just know what's what. _"They're making your breakfast and cleaning your socks and making your life all easy, aren't they? Shouldn't you know if they need to sleep? Maybe they're all sleep-deprived and -" she cut off at a hand on her arm.

"I can't find the chocolate chips," she explained, blinking up at Severus; something was making her eyes sting. _Must have gotten flour in them._

"And that is obviously worthy of tears," he drawled.

"I'm not crying!" she insisted, pulling irritably away from him and shoving past him to get at the next cabinet; it was stocked with rice, in every shape and description. She slammed the door so hard it bounced open again; her nose was running, and she scrubbed impatiently at her face with her sleeve. The flour went up her nose and she sneezed and blinked and inhaled more flour. Hands settled on her shoulders and she jerked away, spinning on him as best as she could.

"I'm not -" she sneezed again, felt snot running down her upper lip and scrubbed it away with the back her hand, feeling miserably disgusting. "It's the flour, my eyes are running, I'm not crying!" she protested, though she had to gulp for air between words and couldn't seem to stem the flow of hot tears down her cheeks. "It's just the flour -"

"Willow," Severus said quietly, voice low and wavering and awkward.

"Stop it, leave me alone," she snapped out feebly; her nose wouldn't stop running. "Are there tissues around here?"

"Tissues?" Severus asked in a doubtful voice. "What - sort of tissues? I would expect the meats are in the larder."

"Not - don't you have tissues?" Willow exclaimed in exasperation, glaring up at him and sniffling, giving up on her face. "Little white pieces of soft paper-kinda stuff that you blow your nose on! How the hell do you survive without tissues?"

He produced a handkerchief silently and moved to wipe her face; she snatched it away from him, wiping at her nose and eyes with frantic movements, hard enough that she thought her face would likely be red and abraded in the morning. The cloth was soft and flimsy and she could feel wetness soaking through to her fingers.

"What have you done in the place of these 'tissues' all these months?" Severus asked carefully. "Your nose must have run before."

"I conjured some," Willow answered, sniffing and blinking furiously and pressing the cloth to her eyes.

"Then why not conjure some now, if you would find them comforting?" he suggested.

"Because I'm an idiot," Willow confessed, letting her hands fall away from her face, with the sodden handkerchief. _So I'm crying, I guess. _"Because I'm a rank, arrogant amateur." She slid down the wall of cabinets until she was crouching, and wrapped her arms around bent legs. Her forehead fell forward to rest on her knees. "I ruined my friends' lives and I think I can fix it with cookies, except I can't even do that 'cause I can't find the stupid chocolate chips, and you really don't get much more pathetic than that, do you?"

Severus had crouched down beside her, and when she glanced up she found herself looking directly into his impassive face. She looked away again quickly, scrubbing her nose on her skirts and wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. For a long moment there was no sound in the room but her sniffling.

I'm so sorry, Tara baby, I'm so sorry. Dawnie. Buffy. Ms. Calendar. Jesse. Oh god Jesse - it wasn't supposed to end up like this, you were supposed to be here, you and me and Xander and we were supposed to stick together and it was supposed to be okay - it was supposed to be okay if we stuck together and I didn't - I didn't Jesse, I left them, I messed everything up and I ran away and I left them and it's not okay and I'm not okay and -

"I had a sister," Severus suddenly announced. Willow blinked up at him.

"I didn't know that," she responded, not knowing what else to say.

"Of course not, considering I didn't tell you," he retorted derisively, and she shrank back, tucking herself in against the cabinet.

"Oh," she sniffled. "Well, I'm sorry. How did she die?"

"I don't know," he snapped. Willow blinked.

"Uh- okay," she stammered. "I'm sorry, it's just you said 'had', so, I thought -"

"She may have died," he went on flatly, right over top of her rambling apologies. "It's likely, in fact. But I don't know how. I didn't find her."

"She got lost?" Willow ventured hesitantly, feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole. _It wasn't supposed to be this way. And, why are we talking about his sister? _

Because of course we ought to be focused on you, because you're the one having the crisis and everyone ought to stop having lives and traumas of their own and they ought to just focus on feeling really, really sorry for you, right?

You rank, arrogant amateur -

"She ran away," Severus answered, and moved stiffly to sit beside her on the floor, just far enough away not to be touching, his long legs in their black trousers splayed out before him, his hands settling limp in his lap. "I traced her as far as Muggle London, but -" He stopped, staring into nothing.

"But?" Willow prompted carefully.

"But the Muggle police had never seen a Wizarding photo before and thought I was playing a prank, and when I tried to search myself I was robbed, beaten and left in an alley," he continued, voice level, emotionless, as if everything he might have felt about the experience had long since drained away. "I spent a memorably evening in the company of an elderly woman named Martha who apparently lived in said alley and thought I was Jesus. Then the Aurors came and retrieved me and threw me into a holding cell somewhere beneath the Ministry, told me I was expelled from Hogwarts, and that I would have a hearing before the Wizengamot the next day to determine whether I would go to Azkaban or be released into my father's custody."

"A hearing for what?" Willow demanded, pulling a little ways out of her huddle and inching towards him. He was still staring straight ahead, focused intently on a butter churn. "You didn't do anything!"

"Oh, but I did," he said, and there was the faintest trace of bitterness. "I showed a Wizarding photo to Muggle police."

"But your sister was missing!" Willow protested. "If it was the only kind of picture you had -"

"I did attempt to explain that," he said mildly. "They were far more interested in that line of thinking once my father and his checkbook arrived."

"He bribed them?" Willow guessed, feeling increasingly horrified.

"Of course not," Severus scoffed, though his tone dripped sarcasm. "A Snape, the noble old house of Snape, resort to such low means? Never! No, he made a very generous contribution to old Barty Crouch's election campaign. Promised to speak for him, too, and hold a fund-raising dinner at the Manor, I believe."

"That's -" Willow found herself at a loss for words.

"The way of the world," he finished flatly. "Though I was less inclined to see things that way at the age of seventeen. So when I was approached by certain people back at Hogwarts, with the suggestion that they could help me both find my sister and change the way of the world . . " He trailed off again.

"You asked where you could sign up," Willow finished for him, feeling nauseous. _I would have. I would have too. _

Didn't I, too?

No, I didn't. I was never that honest with myself. Other people paid for my conscience.

Is that worse?

Does it matter which is worse? None of it's good.

"It wasn't much of a stretch, you must understand, to believe Muggles to be dangerous and sub-human," he went on, "given my recent experience of them."

"Guess not," Willow answered quietly, and then another thought occurred to her. "If your father was such a big important person -"

"Why didn't he make some effort to find Valentina himself?" Severus interrupted.

"That was - that's her name?" Willow stumbled over past and present tense.

"Valentina Ignatia Snape," he said. "She was fourteen, and she left a note."

Willow waited, thinking there must be more to the answer than that.

"That's it?" she finally exclaimed, incredulous. "Your father didn't look for her because - what, she asked him not to?"

"More or less," Severus said levelly, though his voice seemed to vibrate with something dark and carefully checked. "Also it might have caused a scandal. There was a rumor going through the school, within a few weeks, that my mother's family had intervened when they heard her grades were slipping at Hogwarts, and insisted she be sent off to Durmstrang. It was vaguely unsavory, but not as sordid as it could have been. I think after a while my father almost believed it himself."

"I think I would have gone insane," Willow offered.

"You would not," he said with flat finality, and turned to her; she wanted to look away, but found she couldn't quite make herself do it. "I cannot imagine what would break you. I do not understand how you survived."

"Me either," Willow said with a shrug, trying to make light of it. It didn't quite work, and her lopsided grin wavered and finally crumpled. "Because I'm a terrible person," she blurted out, voice catching and tears hovering. _I can't start crying again. I feel like something inside me would break and I'd just start screaming and never stop, if I thought about it, if I let it. _"Because other people died instead of me and to save me and I did terrible things and I wouldn't even admit they were terrible and I was all proud of myself and - and I don't even know how I got here or why I did anything and thinking about it is just like trying to remember a movie you saw when you were really tired and half asleep and it's all out of order in your head and it doesn't make any sense -"

This time when he reached for her she let him pull her forward, so that she half fell into him.

"I did the best I could," she confessed into his shoulder; his arm pulled her closer, tugging her so tightly against him that the sharp bone of his hip was digging into her side, but she didn't want to move. "I did the best I could and it wasn't good enough and people died."

He didn't say anything.

"Maybe if I'd come here - or, that place in Roswell that Dumbledore mentioned? Maybe if I'd actually known what I was doing and I hadn't been trying to figure stuff out from books in languages I didn't even read then -"

"- then you would have been in Roswell," Severus interrupted.

"I could have come back when they needed me," Willow insisted. "And I would have known stuff - and we could have asked for help. There was a whole world out there that we could have asked for help."

"You wouldn't have gotten it," Severus snorted. "We were far too busy with our own problems, and Slayers are generally . . not held in particular esteem, by Wizards. We take a different view of the vampire problem."

"Yeah, I got that from Reed," Willow sighed. "Though, you know, that's Reed, so I thought maybe -"

"For once, he was accurate," Severus responded; his hand had moved up to stroke her hair. Willow sniffled, her nose running again.

"I'm gonna get snot all over your robes." She tried to push away; his arm tightened around her, his hand moving to cradle the back of her skull.

"I really do not give a damn," he responded, sounding just slightly irate. "In fact, I cannot fathom what could possibly be of less significance at this moment."

"Chocolate chips?" Willow suggested.

"I stand corrected," Severus drawled, tone painfully dry. Willow found herself giving a hiccoughing little giggle in spite of herself.

"It still wasn't his choice," she said, after a long and silent moment. "Giles. He still had no right, not to tell me."

"Of course not," Severus agreed, snorting dismissively. "As, I believe, I maintained from the beginning. Are you quite finished with your fit of sulks over slapping the man, in that case?"

"No," Willow answered honestly. "He's still Giles."

"I see," Severus answered, in a tone that suggested he didn't see at all.

"I'm giving up on the chocolate chips, though," Willow offered.

* * *

"What do I do now?" Ginny asked, sitting curled into a ball and shivering on the cold tile of the Slytherin boys' showers.

"Whatever you want," Draco answered, stalking past her and jerking open all the taps, so that hot steam billowed around her. It made her skin tingle; a trickle of hot water snaked its way across the tile to be sopped up by the edge of her nightgown.

"I don't want anything," she answered flatly. The moisture crept up the fabric; it burned when it reached her skin. She didn't move. Draco's footsteps moved behind her, and she heard the showerhead sputtering. A moment later water slapped against her back, and she flinched; it was cold at first, but the temperature rose quickly towards scalding. "It's too hot," she protested, trying to shift out of the way, tears springing into her eyes. "It's too hot, stop it -"

"It's barely lukewarm," Draco argued, crouching down in front of her and grasping her shoulders, stilling her.

"It hurts," she whimpered, making a listless effort to pull away. He held on, fingers digging into her shoulders. "Make it colder."

"No," he snapped. "The water's cold, Weasel. It's just warmer than you are, but then, most things are right now." His own hair was soaked, hanging in his face and dripping, his clothes saturated and clinging to the muted angles of his body. She didn't answer, just clutched her knees tighter to her chest and tried to ignore the stinging pins-and-needles sensation of feeling working its way back into her limbs.

"How's it feel now?" he asked after a few moments.

Almost cold again.

"Better," she allowed, wanting to be angry at him for inflicting this pain on her but finding the emotion out of reach. _There's nothing inside me. There's just this great big empty nothing, like if I open my mouth I might accidentally swallow the world, there's just so much . . so much nothing, it's all hollow -_

"I'm going to make it warmer, then," Draco warned her, at the same moment she blurted out, "I feel sick." He paused.

"Like you're going to retch, sick?" he asked.

"I don't know." She shook her head, felt the wet ends of her hair sliding over her shoulders. Movement was painful, aching as if every cell in her body were bruised."I just feel like - I don't know, I can't - nothing's making sense, my brain feels slow," she frowned, struggling for the words. "That's stupid, that's not what I meant, I just - I can't talk -"

"I'm going leave the water colder for a bit," Draco said nervously, reaching out to push a tendril of sodden hair out of her face. She flinched; his fingers were cold. "I think you're in shock or something."

"I just feel sick," Ginny insisted.

"You could go to the hospital wing," Draco offered hesitantly, and she glared up at him. "Right, stupid thought," he sighed. "Just - you know I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, right? If there's anything really wrong - I mean, if you froze something or there's damage inside you because you got so cold or - fuck it, I don't even know if that can happen, because I'm not a fucking mediwizard and you know that, right? You're not gonna get saner later and want to know why the hell I let you sit here and be all bloody frozen and maybe fuck up your bloody liver or something?"

"My liver?" she asked, and felt a trickle of something bright that tightened her chest and made her lips twitch; it took her a moment to recognize it as humor. _That's funny. I think that's . . funny._

"Well how the fuck should I - are you laughing at me?" he demanded, incredulous and indignant.

"I don't know," she answered, and giggled. _Is that funny? I'm laughing. Laughing means something's funny . . I don't know what's funny._

"You are!" he snapped, scowling.

"It's f-funny!" she stammered by way of apology, and tried to reach out, wanting to touch his scowling face _- touch something solid make sure I'm here because it feels like falling - falling end over end over end and I'm breaking - I'm just bright sharp little pieces and I can't stop laughing - _she fell over sideways and her elbow landed hard on the tiles, shooting sharp pain up her arm. It brought tears back to her eyes, made her gasp for air and start coughing, laughing so hard she shook. _Little bitty pieces, something's just shattering into little bits and it's just - I can't stop laughing -_

"Weasel?" Draco asked, sounding scared.

"I'm f-fine," she managed to gasp out, glancing up at his face and then bursting into further giggles. _It's not that funny, I don't know why I'm laughing so hard - so hard my stomach aches and I feel sick and I can't - I can't stop - _"I'm c-cold and in a n-nightgown in the S-slytherin b-b-BOYS room -" she had to pause to gasp for air "- and I'm L-lord V-voldemort and you w-want - you w-want to kn-know if I froze my - my liver!"

"You're being just a little fucking scary right now, Weasel," Draco pointed out. "Or - or whomever -"

"Weasel's fine," she said, pushing herself back up to sitting and suddenly feeling all the laughter run away like water down the drain. He was watching her warily, poised on the balls of his feet as if he wanted to flee, his narrow jaw set, lips pressed together until they were nearly blue in his pale face. A thick lock of hair was plastered to the center of his forehead, and water ran down and dripped off the tip of his nose. _Drip, drip, drip, drip . . _

Falling. Falling into -

something. Must be falling into something or it wouldn't make a sound.

So quiet inside my head. Everything already hit the bottom.

He wants to run. He's scared, scared of me, and he wants to run and he doesn't.

She lurched awkwardly forward and kissed him, just a brushing of cold, wet lips together. Then she lost her balance and would have fallen again, if he hadn't reached out and caught her.

"What the fuck was that?" Draco demanded, sounding dazed. Ginny found the last remnant of a giggle waiting somewhere down in her chest, at his bewildered expression.

"I wanted to," she said, managing to get her legs in order under her so that she could sit, watching the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "There's water dripping off your nose," she pointed out. _And there's nothing, nothing, nothing inside me . . so much nothing I could just float right away . ._

"I - um -" he stammered, eyes darting everywhere, to her face and away and then down her body and away again. _My nightgown's all wet. _

Should I feel something about that?

My tits are showing. He's looking at my tits and he's swallowing again and I think I should feel something about that.

I don't care, don't care, don't care, don't care . . there's water dripping off his nose and I'm just going to float away . . now I kissed him, he kissed me, kissed me twice and it wasn't fair and now it's almost fair . . one more to be even . . one more that I want, that's my choice, what I want, I could want anything . . I could want anything and nothing and I could just -

"I should go get towels," Draco pronounced, getting awkwardly to his feet. "Towels, and clothes and shit, and - I'll be right back. Don't - don't fucking go anywhere," he finished, before stomping out of the shower in squelching slippers and robes that clung to the lean lines of his back. She watched him go.

I'm cold.

Feeling weak and dizzy and newborn, she managed to pull herself to her feet. _One foot in front of the other . . dizzy, dizzy, dizzy nothing . . it all started in a shower with being cold and I'm here again, here I am again and I kissed him . . I kissed a boy, all myself, and he laughed . . way back in the beginning that was really the middle I kicked him and he laughed and I told him not to go home and I wonder . . I wonder if he remembers, that he laughed, that he laughed and I thought he was crazy . . other foot, one foot in front of the other . . _she wobbled, threw her arms out to steady herself. _Can't fall now, nobody here to catch me . . because he had to go get towels so he could stop looking at my tits and I think that's funny . . I think that's funny, don't fall . . other foot . ._

She reached the wall, half falling into it, both hands slapping against the tile with a wet, echoing splat. Her legs shook, wanting to fold out from under her, but she locked her knees and bit her lip determined, one hand crawling down over the wall until it reached the tap. She jerked it to the left, and the showerhead sputtered and hissed; the spray at her back grew warmer.

Ginny closed her eyes and stepped backward, hands sliding away from the wall, arms raising to her sides as if she were walking a tightrope, until she was standing directly under the water and letting it run down her face.

_

* * *

Do you have any comprehension of what you've put us all through? Tara attempted a locator spell to find you, Tara who you all but raped-_

From his vantage point beside and slightly behind her, Severus had not seen the full impact of those words on their target, but in the dim quiet of the enormous empty kitchen, they seemed to echo back to him. Willow's face had flushed as if scalded; she had flinched as if struck.

It had been at that point in the conversation that he had seen the complex machinery of her intellect click sharply back into gear, as well, as if that had been the jolt she needed to recover from the initial impact of Mr. Giles' unexpected appearance. It was telling, though he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for the insight - unable to cope with that accusation, her mind had cast frantically about for some other focus, and found the discordant fact that Mr. Giles should not have been there in the first place.

Generally sane people do not make such enormous cognitive leaps away from things that are not - at least in some manner or form significant within the framework of their own self-image - true.

A part of her believes that - that what she did to this Tara, whom she loved, was equivalent to rape. If not worse.

And what do you know of what happened between them, really? Of who she was before.

She was a child, a child raised on a Hellmouth -

and when did such mewling excuses begin to sway you?

When she did not make them. When she looked twice at a wretched old bastard who'd failed at everything he'd ever touched -

when it began to serve your purposes, then.

More than anything, the thought of her having done something so genuinely, disturbing wrong only brought back the half-morbid, half-hopeful curiosity he'd felt upon first meeting her. The ease with which he could accept it made him nauseous, but in the same instant that he felt vague revulsion clawing at the back of his throat, his arm was also tightening around her. _Whatever she has done - it cannot be worse than the things you've done, the things you've witnessed and condoned and said nothing, done nothing, paid your penance in screams and gurgles and pleading eyes and stepped back, pulled your robes aside, sneered down and let them die for your cause - for your cause that you failed - _

for nothing. In the end, for less than nothing.

For a pitiful farce of a trial before a puppet court, in which your testimony was not even needed. Cissa died for that, for that pathetic joke currently before the Wizengamot, a handful of worthless sycophants paying their due to a society that would rather go on about its business.

And the pureblood families, the old, noble families, they screech and groan about even that - they've formed a bloody coalition, in the open, in the light of day, to challenge the right of the Ministry -

and I thought the world could change. I thought we were better. I believed it enough to torture and maim and kill for it.

And then I believed enough to torture and maim and kill to oppose it.

Whatever she's done - it cannot matter. Whatever she's done can go to hell and rot there.

Willow was curled into his side now, collapsed in exhaustion, and dreaming. Her lips moved now and then, her brow creased and furrowed; every so often he felt a subtle shift of her entire tiny frame. Those movements made him think of things submerged in deep water, of violent battles fought in murky depths, reduced to the barest of ripples at the surface.

Sentimental drivel.

She was very warm, curled there into the hollow of his shoulder, her elbow digging into his ribs.

As she had feared, she had indeed left a smudge of tears and flour and things less pleasant to contemplate across the sleeve of his robe and a portion of his vest. Severus grimaced down at this intrusion; years of potions work had taught him to be fastidious about his actual cleanliness, if not his appearance. Many an apparently harmless little blot or speck of dirt could result in more than a stained wardrobe if ignored, and perhaps combined later with some other haphazardly splashed concoction.

He had told her he didn't care, though, and while that was not honest in the strictest sense, it was not too large a lie. In the smallest of increments, he had ceased to be cautious with her.

It was suddenly disquieting, the realization that she'd bled like spilt ink on wet parchment, across the fibers of his existence.

He had not thought of Valentina in a very, very long time.

The darkened kitchen seemed full of things that time ought to have buried, and it grated on his nerves; he did not want to move for fear of waking Willow, and losing the small solace of her warmth nestled against him. Somewhere in the back of his brain Severus thought he could hear Cissa laughing at him for that.

Except that she's not, because she's dead.

An image coalesced in his mind, unbidden - _Cissa, young, very young - through the firewhisky haze that had enveloped his brain he thought he knew her, or at least had seen her before, in classes - he tried to say something, anything, but his tongue was tripping over itself and he couldn't tell if he'd been even mildly coherent. The smell of charred flesh was thick and insidious in the air, and somewhere in the distance, he heard Muggle sirens going off. _

He hadn't wanted to be there anymore, hadn't wanted to stay for this, though he'd understood - with no small degree of scorn - that the revels were the only reason half of them were there at all. He'd done his part earlier in the evening, provided detailed and carefully researched notes on improvements to a new and theoretical hex - flame that sought out living flesh, but left the inanimate untouched. It could have many useful military applications, which he had outlined in painstaking detail, and the giddy rush of pride he'd felt when the Dark Lord had pronounced it worthy of experimentation was still burning somewhere down in his gut.

He had never seen someone die before - dead bodies he had seen, but not death itself, dressed in the gaudy pageantry of slick green flame. He hadn't expected the smell; he hadn't expected it to be a carnival, someone pressing a bottle of whisky into his slack hand and clapping him on the back, congratulating him in an already-drunken slur as a blackened thing that had once been human twitched into stillness in the middle of a suburban Muggle lawn.

There had been no making sense of it, no separating the wonderfully malicious vindication, the greedy clutching for someone to acknowledge all that he could do, all that he could be, from the sick disorientation and the wrongness of it all. He had wanted to vomit until his insides turned out and the world collapsed in on itself; instead he'd poured alcohol down his throat. The Dark Lord was watching, a distant shadow like some dark god, apart from the chaos he engendered.

And then she was there, her hands slipping nimble and warm and impossibly soft, inside his robes. It was overwhelming and surreal; someone had shoved her at him like a begrudging gift, and she'd bit her lip and grinned at the same time, nervous and yet knowing. Then there was nothing but sensation, stumbling to the unforgiving ground, twigs and dead grass digging into his knees, the sharp slap of cold air against suddenly bared flesh.

Nearly twenty years later he couldn't quite remember how he'd ended up inside her, only that it had been shattering; the sensation enough to obliterate everything else, all thought, all memory - and somewhere in that miasma of heat and pleasure and forgetting was the sound of her giddy laughter, sharp and cold and broken -

Willow twitched against him, muttered something incomprehensible in her sleep.

Ripples on the surface.

Severus closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the cabinet none too gently. He was aroused now, and irritated with himself for it.

"Uh?" Willow inquired, at the sharp rap of his skull against the wood.

"Hush," Severus ordered imperiously, and she must have remained more unconscious than not, because she did. He felt like a bastard for it, and then like an idiot for that.

I've said worse to her when she was quite wide awake.

Of course, wide awake, she can say something back - even if it is usually some infantile excuse for an insult.

He was very conscious of her hand, dropped limp and thoughtless on his thigh; he could feel the thudding of her heartbeat against his own ribs. Other, less pleasant physical sensations were brought into focus as well; the unforgiving stone floor, the crease in his trousers that was digging into the back of his knee, the ache that was forming in his lower back. He tried to shift just slightly, and she made some small protesting sound again; he scowled down, very tempted to blame his physical discomfiture on her.

But you choose to be here - you choose to remain -

The thought of her not being there any longer was simply unacceptable. _Unfathomable, you mean. _

Can you even remember how you got through the day, before? What kept you from just laying yourself down at the end of the day, and Avada'ing yourself to sleep?

He'd never been truly suicidal, but he remembered imagining it in a degree of detail that likely would have had Dumbledore ready to ship him off to St. Mungo's, if he'd ever known. The word _despair_ was not one he would have used to describe his existence; it had seemed comfortable, at the time. He'd had purpose, a bitter driving purpose, however hollow it had been in the end.

The thought of returning to it filled him with a degree of sheer terror that seemed entirely too large to be contained within his physical frame; there was the urge to scream and flail. When she'd declared so unequivocally that she was going nowhere, the relief he felt had actually made him momentarily weak in the knees - which had made him furious, of course. It was pathetic, ridiculous, insupportable that he'd come to need her so much in so little time, with so little intimacy.

She's not Cissa.

Following from that thought, with a guilty tug down in his gut, _Thank Merlin._

Cissy's laugh still seemed to echo there in the silent kitchen, as some internal mechanism made him aware of the hastening approach of dawn. The light, or rather its lack, remained unchanged, but something in the air was different - on the verge, and hushed.

Severus pulled himself carefully to his feet, shifting Willow's slumbering form so that the cabinet would support her slight weight. He felt his joints creaking, muscles full of a tremulous weakness that told him he'd pushed it too far - that he needed food or sleep or both, in the immediate future, unless he wished to embarrass himself by collapsing. The counter was still an explosion of flour and eggshells and disorganized bottles and tins. Leaving ingredients - _ingredients for cookies, you pitiful sod - _out like that made him grimace, but the house elves would take care of it, and likely not thank him for keeping them outside that much longer to clean it himself.

"Wha?" Willow questioned blearily, blinking and squinting as he crouched beside her.

"It's morning," he informed her in a hushed voice, though he wasn't sure for who's benefit he was whispering. "If we want breakfast, we'd best let the house elves back in."

"Oh," she answered, leaning into the arm he'd slipped between her shoulders and the cabinets. "But the Council said not to. " She frowned.

She talks in her sleep.

He slid his other arm under her bent knees, grimacing faintly as his own knees protested her weight lifted into his arms.

"You can't eat that," she announced with great authority, eyes still closed, and then let her head fall back against his chest.

"I will remember that," he assured her, amused. She snorted, and then was quiet. The heat of her soft breath reached him through layers of robe and vest and shirt. The kitchen seemed to wait around them, deep in the bowls of the castle where sunlight would never reach, full of the imminence of dawn.

No one is listening. No one will hear.

"Goodnight, Cissa," Severus whispered to the empty room.

* * *

Ginny was sitting perched on the edge of a sink when Draco got back, arms laden with oversized towels and heavy sweaters and woolen socks, all stolen from his dorm mates. _Everything I own is crap, wouldn't be warm enough, have to get her warm - _there was a puddle under her, and she was swinging her feet, watching the water drip from her toes.

Little pale toes with freckles - freckles everywhere - fuck it, stop looking at her like that, stop thinking with your fucking cock - I'd burn down the world for her, burn down everything, everything is just fucking shit except her and she has to be okay - she has to be okay, so I can fix it all for her freckled toes and tomato soup hair and -

and I can't stop looking at the way her nightgown's all wet and bunched up between her thighs and fuck she's tiny and she's got these tiny little tits and this flat little stomach and I can see her belly button and -

and she just tried to kill herself, you miserable little shit, stop looking at her like that.

"What are you doing?" he demanded furiously, tossing everything he carried into the dry sink next to her.

"Dripping," she answered, looking up at him and smiling faintly.

"You're supposed to be getting warm, you're supposed to stay under the fucking hot water -" He snatched up a towel and threw it over her shoulders; his hands contacted flesh for a moment, and he pulled back, scowling.

"I'm warm enough," she said, though she pulled the towel around herself. _I know. _

Warm and soft and wet -

shut the fuck up, just stop thinking.

She was watching him, considering.

"Right." He swallowed hard. "You should get dressed then, before you get cold again - I brought clothes and shit - socks -" He made a vague motion towards the pile of cloth in the sink.

"I want to show you something," she answered.

* * *

Someone was tugging on the laces of her shoe and muttering.

Willow blinked, disoriented, and realized there was something soft under her head - something that felt very little like a cabinet, or Severus' shoulder. Also she seemed to be lying down.

"I fell asleep on you again, didn't I?" she asked, grimacing. The fumblings at her feet paused a moment.

"You did indeed," Severus responded, apparently managed to untangle the shoelace she remembered triple-knotting that morning - _years and years and years ago _- and pulled the shoe off of her foot. She felt cold air against sweaty sock for moment before the sock was gone too. _I think I ought to be embarrassed or something now. My feet are all day-old and stinky._

Her foot was shifted slightly, placed on something that felt rather like a mattress; a blanket was pulled across her legs, up to her waist, where he paused and her eyes found his face.

"Sorry," she mumbled sleepily. "Who's room are we in?"

"Yours," he supplied, sounding faintly amused. "The house elves wanted their kitchen back."

"Oh." Her outer robes were slung across her the desk behind him, atop the books she'd been reading the night before. She shivered as she became aware of the cold air seeping through the thin material of the shift-like dress she'd been wearing underneath, and tugged the blankets up higher. _Huh. Guess I was really out. Usually I notice being undressed and put to bed. _

That's sorta . . I don't know . . I'm feeling something about that, and I think it's good, sorta warm and tingly and God I'm tired.

"You took my shoes off," she pronounced sleepily.

"Did you want them on?" he asked doubtfully.

"No," she scoffed, then, "It's cold in here. It's always so cold here."

"It's Scotland," Severus pointed out dryly.

"Stupid Scotland," Willow grumbled, reaching up to catch the piece of hair that had fallen across his face. His eyes followed her fingers. Her own vision was a little unfocused; _hazy, hazy and warm._

"Go to sleep," he answered, catching her hand and kissing the palm. He tried to lay her hand down on the bed, but she grasped his fingers and held on.

"Stay," she asked. He didn't move, didn't respond; he watched her face as if waiting for some other sign.

I think I need to wake up a bit more . . I think it's possible I'm doing something that's gonna be embarrassing in the morning . . come on, brain, let's function now . .

"Just - just for staying," she amended.

"Of course," he answered, awkwardly, suddenly looking everywhere but at her, and his fingers in hers were tense. "I would not have presumed -"

"No, you should," she cut him off, shaking her head and propping herself up on one elbow. "I mean, just not - not now? Not when it's - I'm not saying this very well," she scowled, scrunching her nose and squeezing her eyes shut repeatedly, trying to get the world to focus. "I'm not awake enough to be having this conversation, and I just had a sorta bad day -"

"Sort of?" Severus snorted.

"Yeah, sort of," Willow said. "Nobody died."

It was silent for a moment.

"I hate that," she pronounced. "I hate that I say things like that and I hate that I think like that and I hate that my life is like that. I don't mean to, I really don't, I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me."

"I know that," he answered, almost offended; nothing that could be mistaken for pity.

"Have I mentioned I might want to keep you?" she blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow, shifted his knees on the floor. She bit her lip, wakefulness creeping up on her.

"I probably ought to take that back or phrase it better or something, but I think I meant it," Willow said finally, with a shrug. _I wouldn't be saying this if I weren't so tired .. so tired, so tired from everything, I'm done, empty, I can't feel anything anymore except I'm cold and I want him to stay - I want him to stay always -_

"Good," he said finally.

"Good?" she asked, and tried not to sound as small and needy as she felt. _Please stay._

"Go to sleep," he said again, and pulled his hand out of hers, pushing himself to his feet.

"What-" she started, feeling her stomach drop, but then he sat on the edge of the bed. "What're you -"

"I am taking my shoes off," he answered in an exasperated sort of voice; it was just this side of rude, and she felt an enormous stupid grin tugging at her lips. He glanced back at her, snorted and rolled his eyes. "And you are entirely too exhausted to be speaking. Do be quiet, before you say something that will have you babbling explanations and apologies in the morning."

"You're staying?" she pressed.

"No," he sneered. "I'm walking back to my rooms in my bare feet."

"Ass," Willow muttered, letting her head fall back to the pillow, closing her eyes and just absorbing the sounds of him moving about the room, the shift of the bed under his weight as he slid in behind her. "You like that I babble. Jerk-person," she added for good measure.

"Babbling twit," Severus returned, pulling the covers up over them both. His arm curled around her waist, and she wriggled back against his chest. He went still, awkward and uncertain for a moment before relaxing.

"You're warm," Willow observed approvingly, consciousness already swimming away as he murmured, "_Nox_," and the bedside lamp went out.


	33. February

Title: February

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: The end of the night.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" and "Half-Blood Prince" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

* * *

And February was so long that it lasted into March  
Found us walking a path alone together  
You stopped and pointed and you said, "That's a crocus,"  
And I said, "What's a crocus?" And you said, "It's a flower."  
I tried to remember, but I said, "What's a flower?"  
You said, "I still love you."

- Dar Williams, 'February'

* * *

Draco was so tired it hurt. There was a fine trembling to his entire body, his muscles aching, and a feeling in his skull that was not quite pain, but was still distinctly unpleasant.

_Dizzy and too heavy and about to implode, like my head's in a vise, and it'd ease up a bit if I just closed my eyes . . just for a second . . just a – _

He blinked rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut until stars blossomed behind his eyelids and his stomach lurched. Chill, damp air, heavy with some unknown mineral smell, was sucked determinedly in through flared nostrils.

_Wake the fuck up. _

_So tired, so bloody fucking tired I'd kill for some sleep, just five minutes, just –_

_- just wake the fuck up, just stop thinking about sleep, can't sleep now, can't sleep here. _

Ginny sat cross-legged on the smooth limestone a few paces in front of him, nearly lost in the enormous, ugly gray sweater that Gregory Goyle had apparently not thought he'd need over the winter holidays, and had left at school. No one had come for Goyle's things yet.

_I wonder if he's dead. _

_I wonder if we're all going to be dead, soon, everything's going to hell and nothing makes sense and I am so fucking tired – so bloody fucking tired I could just lay down and die – _

_- not here, can't sleep here, can't let your fucking guard down here, it's crawling with magic, too much magic in one place, worse than the stairs to the dungeon back home, things happen in places like this if they're not kept in check – can't give a place this much will and then just let it go – things just - _

_- things unravel and twist and fade and grow wills of their own – if they don't fade, they get all – all fucked in the head and of course Weasel doesn't know that, doesn't even speak Old English, fucking pathetic excuse for a fucking pureblood joke of a family and this place is fucking watching me. _

_Can't go to sleep here. Can't let your guard down here. Can't – fuck, shouldn't have her here, like this, all vulnerable and weird and quiet and almost fucking killed herself – she almost just – just wasn't, and fuck it, don't think about it, it didn't happen that way. _

_Didn't happen. She's right there. _

_Too fucking quiet. Too fucking quiet and shouldn't be here and this place is crawling all over me and – _

_- so tired. So tired._

A few feet in front of Ginny lay the remains of the basilisk, gargantuan as a dinosaur, bigger than some dragons he'd seen. She'd said she wanted to show him something, and he wasn't sure if she'd meant the Chamber, or the way it responded to her _– things like this shouldn't be let sit, shouldn't be let go or they change – they turn –_ or the enormous dead basilisk. She'd said nothing of substance since they left the Slytherin dorm, just pulled him silently along. He'd balked at the entrance to the tunnel, at the way its hissing brass denizens had flicked their tongues at him, testing and wary.

She'd just looked at him, blankly, as if she didn't care, couldn't be surprised or disappointed anymore.

He was exhausted enough to be vaguely impressed at the basilisk, without feeling the need to rationalize his admiration away. _Potter killed that thing, with a fucking sword. When he was twelve. _

_And if he hadn't, then Weasel-girl would be dead. Would have been dead all this time and never kicked you and laughed and told you not to go home – don't go home, just don't go home –_

_- there is no fucking home, there's no place – no place that makes any sense anymore and fuck it all, I do not want to be impressed with Potter and I do not want to owe him anything, and that's a fucked-up way to think of it anyway, don't owe him, he didn't save her for my sake and she's not mine, not a thing, don't own her, don't -_

_- this place is staring at the back of my head. _

Ginny had been just sitting there, staring into the basilisk's missing eyes, for what felt like hours. He had no real sense of how much time had actually passed.

"I don't think he planned that," she said suddenly, and Draco jumped, startled. "Not for it to be so . . so big, anyway. The first thing you see."

"What?" he asked, shuffling a little closer, arms folded defensively across his chest. He was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature, and everything to do with his body being close to the point of shutting down. _So tired . . _

"Himself," Ginny explained, nodding at the enormous face of Salazar Slytherin with his open-gaping mouth and his wildly flowing hair. "This place, it was supposed to be for her. But he never carved her. Just him, and the snakes."

"Maybe he got saner half-way through," Draco suggested, shrugging. "Maybe he got over it, gave it up."

"No," she said, with absolute certainty. "He didn't. He never got over her."

"Okay," Draco agreed, for lack of anything else to say.

"It's where he lived while he built the place," Ginny suggested, tilting her head to the side, as if pondering. _Or listening. _"Up there. Inside his head."

>Living inside your own head. Literally. That's just – 

_- fuck I'm tired. _

"I think he thought he failed," Ginny concluded. "He couldn't figure out how . . how to bring her back. I think that's why he left."

"Makes sense," Draco allowed. _Nothing makes sense. _

"It doesn't," she argued, frowning. "Because there's something here. You feel that, don't you? There's . . it's not just a room."

"It's wild magic," Draco explained, squinting and trying to squeeze the increasingly insistent blur from his vision, trying not to sound too impatient. _Don't want to snap at her, upset her, can't upset her can't hurt her just . . just so tired and her family is fucking pathetic and she should already know this shit, why didn't anybody ever teach her this shit, teach her not to go getting herself fucking possessed and –_

_- and fuck it, not her fault, Father's fault and don't you fucking start blaming her because that's just, just like him, to think she got what she deserved or what her family deserved and it would have served the fucking pathetic lot of them right if she did die for all the attention they pay her and – _

_- and none of that matters one fucking bit, just fucking explain and don't think, just shut up and don't think. _

She blinked blankly up at him, uncomprehending.

"You know what wild magic is?" he prompted.

"It's -" she frowned. "You said what I did in the Charms classroom, that was wild magic."

"Well – yeah," he conceded. "But this is – well – it's a different sort of wild magic."

She blinked, and watched him, unimpressed.

"It's like -" he fumbled for an analogy, thoughts fuzzy and slow. " – like if you leave a piece of fruit somewhere and forget about it, and it molds. It . . grows shit," he finished, shrugging. _Note to self – scrap any future plans for a career in teaching magical theory. That was the most pathetic explanation I've ever heard. Of anything. Ever. _"Magic sorta does that too. Only it's like -" _like I'm so tired I can't fucking think._

"It doesn't mean anything," Ginny pronounced, and Draco tensed. _Don't start on that again, just don't, not again –_ "Wild magic," she elaborated, though if she'd seen his panic in his face, she gave no indication. "That doesn't mean anything. It means 'I don't know why this happens'."

"No, it's -" he tried to argue, stopped, and couldn't think of a single valid point of contention. _You know what it fucking means if you hear people say it all the time and you grow up with this shit and you're a pureblood, Weasel, you should have grown up with this and you should have a bloody clue and you don't and –_

_- and I bet Granger would. Granger who's a Mudblood, I bet she knows all about it. Could recite five different theories on it and probably has one of her own besides. _

_Don't know why in the hell I thought that. _

_Purebloods and Mudbloods and . . and fuck it all I'm just tired. _

"- it's just a thing that's – fuck, I don't know," he finished lamely, scowling down at the floor. "But it doesn't mean anything that this place feels like it's staring at you, it doesn't mean he actually did it. It's just the magic. Give something a purpose and leave it alone a while, and – you just shouldn't do that, shouldn't leave things like this to their own devices. They – go strange."

"It's alive," Ginny said, hushed.

"It's not," Draco insisted, feeling a bit like banging his head on a wall. _Except for these walls might hit back. _"It just – thinks it is."

"Thinks," Ginny echoed, tonelessly. "If it thinks -" She paused, and turned back to the basilisk, reaching one pale hand out towards it. The sleeve of Goyle's sweater fell down past her knuckles, so only her fingertips were exposed. She stopped just short of touching, fingers hovering over desiccated scales – for which Draco was profoundly grateful, given how the idea of her touching that thing had made his stomach begin a hasty climb up towards the roof of his mouth.

" – if it thinks, then it's alive," she said, letting her hand fall away. "Or . . or something that's as good as. It's just as good as." Her voice tapered off into a whisper. "It's just as real."

She went silent, and there was no sound in the Chamber but for the steady dripping of a stalactite somewhere back towards the tunnel. Draco's pulse clamored angrily in his ears, sickeningly loud, demanding rest.

"I've thought of something I want," Ginny announced, turning back to him, and her face was suddenly not blank. He couldn't have named what he saw there, but it was something fierce. "I want there to be just one of me. I want to be the one of me that's real."

* * *

Hermione bit her lip, re-read the spell from Viktor's last letter one more time – they'd devised a code before he left, because if he wrote Dark spells outright and she got caught with them, she'd likely be expelled – and pointed her wand at the apple perched on her desk. It sat on a stack of books with a towel draped over them, to catch any spilled apple bits and juices.

Her wand-hand wavered.

_It's just an apple. _

_The spell needs intent, just like any other spell, you can't keep thinking 'it's just an apple' or there's no point to practicing at all. _

_Crabbe. Vincent Crabbe, sitting there at breakfast eating sausage and eggs like there's nothing wrong in the world – _

The rush of rage that ran up her spine was so sharp it turned her wavering into shaking, and she dropped her wand.

"Damn it!" she exclaimed, and her voice was loud and sudden enough in the quiet of her room to make her jump, which only made her more annoyed with herself. With sharp determined movements, she grabbed her wand back up again, pointed it, turned her wrist in a precise, perfect upward swing, opened her mouth to speak. _Just don't think of anything, just do it! _

There was a knock on her door.

Hermione swallowed a yelp and stuck her wand into her pocket, grabbing for the towel and throwing it towards the laundry hamper. _That looks odd, can't have that there for anyone to see, can't leave anything looking strange or making anyone suspicious and oh Merlin I could get myself expelled doing this –_

She upset the stack of books, and the apple rolled in a wobbling line across the floor, under the bed.

"Hermione?" called a voice from beyond the door, and it was only Ron. She hesitated a moment – even Ron and Harry didn't know, but it was just a messy pile of books, wasn't it? She left the books where they lay, and answered the door.

"What's wrong?" she asked, because it was too early for anyone to be awake for good reasons. He was either dressed already, or still dressed from the day before. _But so am I. And that's not obvious, is it – you're worried about a stack of books and a towel where it shouldn't be, but it's five in the morning and you're in yesterday's clothes. _

"Can I come in?" Ron asked, a little nervously, glancing behind him into the dark of the empty prefects' lounge. "Katie's still pissed that George clipped her with that Bludger last practice, she'd give me detention for being out of bed."

"Of course," Hermione answered, stepping out of her door and feeling more than a little confused; Ron slouched across the room and ended up leaning on a bedpost, digging the toe of his shoe into her carpet.

"D'you wanna go down to breakfast?" he asked.

"It's not even six in the morning," Hermione pointed out, bewildered. "Breakfast won't even be set out yet."

He shrugged.

"Did something happen?" she asked carefully. "Is Harry -"

"Harry's in the library," Ron interrupted. "Snuck out with his dad's old cloak. He lives there more than you do lately, reading everything he can find on the Dark Arts." Her stomach gave an uneasy twitch.

_I'm not doing anything wrong. Defending yourself isn't wrong. _

_But what if you're hoping for the opportunity? _

"Oh," Hermione responded, trying to sound normal and feeling a little disturbed at how well she succeeded. "I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, me either," Ron said, and sighed. "I mean, I noticed, I just didn't pay it much attention 'cause it's Harry, y'know? It can't hurt for him to know that stuff, can it? He'll probably need it."

She didn't have anything to say to that.

"I think he's taking it a little overboard, though," Ron went on. "I guess he must be sleeping sometime but I haven't seen it." He scrubbed at his eyes, looking like he needed a bit more sleep than he'd gotten too. "I just wasn't paying much attention."

"I haven't either," Hermione admitted, sitting down on the carpet across from him. "We should talk to him, I suppose." _But what will we say? Ron's right. He'll probably need to know everything he can. _

_But he needs to sleep, too, and – wouldn't I have noticed if he weren't sleeping? Wouldn't I have seen if something was really wrong? _

_There's something really wrong with Ginny. _The thought fluttered unexpectedly into her mind, and her eyes flickered guilty up to Ron's face and then away again. _He hasn't noticed. I'm not sure anyone else has. _

_And I haven't done anything about it, said anything about it, because if she wanted me to she'd have asked, wouldn't she? We're friends, and she'd tell me if it was something I could help, and she seems okay – really I think she's okay –_

_- and I can't think about that, about anyone else not being okay, it's hard enough to just keep going – to remember to brush my teeth in the morning and forgot my Charms homework twice last week and it's so hard, it's so bloody hard and it just drags on forever - _

_- it's going to be like this forever. They're never coming back. It's never going to be okay, no matter how many curses I learn, or Harry, or anyone, it can never be -_

_- stop it, just stop it, don't think that way, just – just think about now and staying alive and Harry. We were talking about Harry. _Ron was watching her.

"What?" she asked. _I missed something. I just missed something again, and I can't keep doing that! _

"I said, I was thinking we'd go drag him down to breakfast," Ron repeated. "Are you sleeping enough?"

"I'm f –" she began.

"Don't say you're fine, you're not bloody fine," Ron cut her off, sounding very tired himself. "Nothing's bloody fine."

There was nothing to say to that, either. _You should say something comforting – ask if he's okay, how he's dealing – _

_- though what does he have to deal with? His parents are alive, aren't they? And he's a pureblood after all, no one's going to be attacking and raping him, are they, and he's got his girlfriend right here and he remembers his homework as much as he ever did, and if he didn't it's not like he ever cared that much, and I don't know what he's so upset about. _

_And oh God, I didn't just think that. I didn't. It's Ron. _

"I broke up with Blaise," he announced suddenly, casually, as if he were observing that it might snow later in the day.

"Oh, why?" Hermione blurted out, though when she thought about it, she remembered seeing less and less of them together in the last few weeks. _I just didn't pay it much attention. Like everything else. I can't keep on like this – _

"Her idea, I guess," Ron said, shrugging, ducking his head and scrubbing at his eyes self-consciously. "Dunno. I mean, I guess we're still friends or something, I suppose."

"Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry," Hermione said, wanting to reach out and hug him, but he was all hunched down into his clothes and not looking like he wanted to be touched. _If Viktor –_

_- but he wouldn't, that won't happen, we're fine -_

_- but I've got nothing to say when I write to him, nothing that happens day to day matters and I can't just keep writing about what's happening in the papers and being so angry and sooner or later, sooner or later he's got to get bored of that, of me being such a mess and -_

_- and I couldn't handle it if he did, I just couldn't survive it. _

"It's alright, it's just –" Ron stopped, gave the barest of shrugs, and ducked his head further. "It wasn't like you and Viktor," he said, and Hermione remembered, suddenly, that he could be uncannily perceptive sometimes. _Why does remembering that feel like . . like meeting again after years? _

_Like we've all been away. In our own little worlds. _

"Was a stupid idea in the first place," Ron insisted. "Me and her. It's not like we had anything really in common, and she's in Slytherin, and –" he cut himself off again. "And sometimes I really bloody hate this place. I never thought I'd say that."

"Dobby would get us breakfast even if it wasn't ready for everyone else," Hermione said. It had nothing to do with what he'd been saying, but it was all she could think of. _Just keep going. It's like the moving staircases . . just keep walking and don't look down. _

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "Yeah, that's a thought. We could just hit the kitchens." She hadn't really meant that, and wanted to say that they shouldn't trouble the rest of the house elves, but she bit her tongue. "So we'll go collect Harry, then?"

"Just let me throw on some shoes," Hermione answered.

* * *

"Real. Right," Draco repeated back wearily. "Weasel, you are real, and there is just one of you, you're just -" He stopped, and gestured wordlessly in clear frustration at her, the Chamber, the basilisk, everything.

"But there's another one of me," Ginny explained. "Out there."

"There's another one of -" he paused nervously. "Tom?" He squinted, blinked, and gave his head an irate shake. His hair fell into his eyes and he shoved it back angrily, gaze never leaving her face, tense and wary. _He's afraid of me. Afraid for me. Two halves of me and . . and two halves make a whole and am I? _

_It's just me. Just one of me and I don't – _

"I don't know," Ginny answered, frowning. _I'm not afraid. It feels like I could never be afraid again. _"I don't think it matters what you call me." She paused, considering, frown deepening. _Feels like looking down a long dark tunnel and there's something shining at the bottom, deep waters somewhere down there and something's reflecting, and I can almost see it, almost, but it's far away and cold and I don't think that just thinking is supposed to be like that. _

_Ought to know what I think, what I feel . . ought to know who's talking in my head but it's just – _

_- it's just me. It was only ever just me. _

_But which me was it? _

_I don't think it matters. I don't think it matters anymore at all. There's no one else here now, and whoever's left, it doesn't feel like . . like . . _

_. . like anyone went away or died or disappeared. I'm still Ginny. I'm still Tom. It's just names, just words, just what you call a thing and it doesn't matter because I'm not a thing . . I'm still here. I survived. _

_I'm still here. Just me. Not Lord Voldemort. It was all dark and cold and wrong, so wrong, wrong about everything and so many awful things, I did and thought and was so many terrible things, so many terrible things that should be left in the dark and frozen and . . . _

_. . and I'm still here. _

_Not Voldemort. That's who I am. I'm not Voldemort. _

"Weasel -" Draco began carefully.

"I like that," she interrupted him, surprised at the sensation. _Like. I . . like. Warm and good and belonging. _

"What?" he asked, confused and blinking, and she noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and drooping, surrounded by dark circles. _He's tired. Of course he's tired, didn't sleep at all. _

_I want him to sleep. I want him to sleep and be warm and rested and safe and . . and all good things. _

_My mother used to tuck me in bed and pull the covers up to my ears and I could hear Fred and George through the walls at night, sneaking out of bed and finding trouble to get into, and the ghoul, and Ron talking in his sleep upstairs and Errol coming in through the kitchen window and knocking things over and . . home. I had a home. I felt safe. _

_It's still there, isn't it? I could . . I could go there. And maybe they wouldn't hate me. _

_Maybe they wouldn't hate me because he doesn't, calls me Weasel like he's trying to be mean and teasing but he's not, and it's just . . it's just me. It's really just me, all of me. _

"I like that you call me Weasel," she explained. "Just you call me that."

"Oh," he responded, and sounded no less confused. "I could call you whatever you want, Ginny or Tom or -"

"You should sleep. You're tired," she cut him off.

"You've gotten less sleep than me," he pointed out. She considered that. _He's right. I haven't slept in . . days, I think. _

_I should be tired. Am I tired? I don't think that matters too much. _

"There's a bed up there," she offered, nodding past the basilisk, to Salazar's shocked-looking face. When she looked back at Draco he seemed to have paled, the dark rings around his eyes standing out starkly.

"Up in - there?" he asked, incredulously.

"It's safe," Ginny said, shrugging. "I've been up there – it's a little musty, but it's safe."

"Weasel, this whole place isn't safe," Draco retorted.

"I suppose – I suppose I'm not very good at judging things like that," Ginny conceded. _But if it thinks, then it's as good as alive, it's real, it's someone, and it hasn't hurt me. I've hurt it. Used it. _She glanced quickly to the basilisk and then back to Draco's face. _Used it and broke it. _"But I really think it's okay." He didn't look convinced. "Besides, I don't think you could climb back up until after you've slept a bit, no matter how much you want to."

She could see in his face that he hadn't thought of that. He opened his mouth as if to argue but broke into a wide yawn instead, after which he looked sullen and scared.

"It won't hurt you," Ginny insisted. _I could be wrong, I've been so wrong about so much, about everything, just everything. _

_But it's mine. I don't think I was wrong about that. This place, it's . . it's mine somehow. _

_And it won't hurt you because I won't let it. _

* * *

Willow woke from a disjointed dream in which she'd been back in the old Sunnydale High, only it had been converted to an aquarium in her absence, and was full of dark water. Then the walls – turned to glass, also while she wasn't looking – had come loose of their frames, and some of them cracked, and all the various aquatic creatures had been poured in together. The denizens of the new Sunnydale aquarium seemed to be mostly sharks, dolphins, and corpses, and they were eating each other.

The dream was, at least, strange enough that she felt no disorientation as consciousness returned; she just suddenly knew it was a dream. _Better than the kind that could be real, where you don't know quite for sure if you're waking up or if you're dying. _A shark about the size of a twelve-year-old child, with long brown hair and human arms, clung to her ankle and gnawed - but that was okay, because it wasn't real.

She squinted and blinked up into absolute darkness, disconcertingly like being under water. Her head throbbed, the pain crashing into her all at once, so that she whimpered.

_That's what you get for falling asleep crying. _Someone was moving around the room, apparently unencumbered by the dark, making soft rustling-cloth sounds. _Severus. _

_What time is it? _

"Are you awake?" he asked, in an even, quiet tone, unlikely to rouse her if she'd just been talking in her sleep. Somewhere under the pain and nausea and the vague remembrance that something really bad had happened the night before, she felt warmed.

"Unfortunately," she muttered, and fumbled her way to sitting. _Why does being in the dark make you lose your coordination? That doesn't make any sense, your sense of balance comes from your inner ear and the inside of your ear can't tell if it's dark, in fact it's gotta always be dark inside your ears, and God, my head hurts. _

"Drink this," Severus said, and pressed a small vial of something into her right hand. She lifted the thing towards her mouth, realized her hand was shaking, and cupped it between two hands to steady it. When it got to her lips, she tasted cork.

There was an exasperated sigh somewhere to her right, and then other hands on hers, taking the bottle away.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "My brain isn't really working yet." He didn't respond, but the bottle was pressed back into her still uplifted and waiting palms. This time her lips contacted cool glass, and then a bitter liquid that tasted vaguely of anise. She drank it down, and it burned faintly, like liquor.

"That wasn't alcoholic, was it?" she asked, when she was finished. Though she couldn't see his expression in the dark, she could imagine it, and said, "What?" at his lack of reply.

"It would serve you right if it was poison," he said, scornfully, though still in that hushed tone. "It didn't occur to you to question what you were being handed before drinking?"

"I knew it was you," she grumbled. The pain in her head was fading, though as the pain ebbed away, a heaviness seemed to grow. "Thanks. What time is it?"

"Early," he said, and she felt him leaning towards her, the bed shifting beneath his weight, and then the brush of lips against hers. He was gone again before she could kiss him back. "Go back to sleep."

"I really should -" she began, but then couldn't remember what she really should, and was somehow lying down again.

"In the morning," Severus suggested, and his voice sounded farther off.

"Isn't it morning?" Willow murmured, and she thought he answered, but his words were just comforting noise, and she was drifting into dreamless darkness.

* * *

Draco stopped dead just inside the door to the room in Salazar Slytherin's head, staring, dumbstruck.

Ginny glanced back at him, frowning faintly, then followed his line of sight over to the bookshelves.

"I haven't touched them," she said. "I hadn't – I hadn't really even thought about them. I just saw the diary and . . " She let it train off.

"Weasel, this is -" Draco found himself at a loss for words. _I am too fucking tired for this, this night needs to just fucking stop. _"These – they're – do you know what my -" _my father. _He stopped again, swallowed hard. _That is never going to happen. I will burn the place to fucking ground before I let that happen. _" – what some people would pay for these? I'm not even talking galleons, Weasel, you could buy yourself a small empire with those books."

_Father would kill for these. _

_But that's not saying much, is it, that he'd kill for a thing. He'd kill for nothing, for entertainment, it's what they did after dinner parties. _

"But not keep it very long," Weasel mused quietly, reaching out and catching a bit of cobweb on one fingertip, pulling it away from a thick, crumbling tome. She glanced sideways at him, and it was a shrewd and calculating look. "That's the point, isn't it? So much knowledge has been lost. So much power." She turned back to the books. "I'm afraid they'll crumble if I touch them."

"We'll need to renew the preserving charms," Draco suggested, edging closer to her and to the shelves, feeling a queasy excitement stirring in his gut. _This is more important than anything my father's ever done, more fucking power than he's ever been near in his life, this is – this is something to make everything else insignificant. _

_And that's just how he'd think. Power and control and it's not, it's not more important than her, not worth all the pain and death and freezing and she wanted to die, and it's not worth that, not worth what she's had to go through to find it, don't you fucking dare start thinking like that – _

_- but isn't it? What's in those books – don't even know what's in those books, what if there's cures for diseases or . . or I can't think of what else, I'm so fucking exhausted and I need to sleep, I need to sleep for the next ten years, but it could be good things, things to . to fix things, to make everything not so bloody fucked up, wouldn't that be worth anything - _

_- and isn't that just what she said, she or he or who-fucking-ever, up on the roof, that she thought she could make it all better but she was wrong, and she wanted to die. _

_But so much power -_

_I won't be my father, I just fucking will not. I will not. _

_I guess we'll see, won't we? I guess we'll just bloody well see how . . how it all turns out, how it fucking ends and bloody hell I want this night to end. _

"Could you do that?" Ginny asked, tilting her head. "You're very sure? They're so fragile, all about to go to dust -"

"No, I'm not fucking sure," Draco snapped.

She didn't react to the bite in his words, just watched him dispassionately, as if his temper and his badly jarred nerves were just vaguely interesting. For some reason it made him more ashamed than if she'd flinched. _Not her fucking fault, and she tried to kill herself just hours ago, and you are an ass._ "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's just -"

Words again fled before the heavy buzzing pressure in his skull. His eyes flickered sideways to the bed, and he thought in a disconnected sort of way that it was a very good measure of how tired he was that, looking at a thousand-year-old pillow that still bore the imprint of Salazar Slytherin's head, all that really concerned him was whether the dust might make him sneeze and thus keep him awake.

"I don't want to give them to anyone else," Ginny said, in a low, conspiratorial tone. "Maybe it'd better if they went to a museum or something where they'd be locked away and studied, but -"

"But all that power," Draco finished for her. "All that knowledge and all that power and it's yours."

"I don't trust myself," she whispered. "But I trust anybody else less. I can't just let them go, they're – they're mine. This place is still mine. And I think -" She stopped.

"What?" he pressed, very close to being too tired to care.

"If I think that, then . . then I think that he must, too," Ginny said.

* * *

TBC . . 


	34. Good Enough

Title: Good Enough

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: Willow attempts to find some closure.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" and "Half-Blood Prince" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

* * *

It was just as dark when Willow woke the second time, her head heavy but no longer painful, her mouth so dry it felt stuffed with wool. She squinted up into the blackness, frowning, snatches of conversation from the previous evening weaving their way back into her consciousness. It felt as thought a significant amount of time had passed, more than a full night's sleep.

_And considering there was much less than a full night left when I fell asleep, that's not good._

"Severus?" she called out experimentally; no one answered.

"Light," she muttered, grimacing and rubbing her eyes. Candles around the room flared as she rolled out of bed and stumbled her way groggily to the bathroom. There she flicked on the cold water and cupped her hands under it, drinking thirstily, shivering faintly at the trickle of cold wetness that spilled over and escaped down her wrist. _What was in that stuff he gave me?_ Several cupfuls later, she finally reached for her toothbrush, blinking up into the mirror and seeing the dark circles under her eyes, her unwashed hair making a tangled copper cloud around her head.

_A shower might be a good thought too._

Ten minutes and one hot shower later, she felt somewhat more human, though still unnaturally sleepy.

_Note to self; when told 'drink this', ask questions first, not after._

_Which is exactly what he said. Poophead. _

She yawned, so widely that her ears popped, and glanced over at the clock.

It read about three-quarters of the way from 'you've missed breakfast' to 'if you're not in class, you're late!'.

Willow yelped, and dropped the towel she'd been twisting around her wet hair.

_Ohmygodclass! I'm missing my own class! I'm the teacher and I'm late to class. _

_Maybe if I run I won't –_

_- clothes. First, need clothes._

She grabbed up the robe that was still slung over her desk.

_Yesterday's clothes? Is this still okay? No, it'll probably smell all musty and stuff. So then I'll be late and I'll be smelly and Dumbledore saw that whole mess last night and I am so fired and I'm going to kill Severus for giving me that stupid potion -_

_- even thought I probably would have been non-functional without it and for pete's sake the closet is right over there, why am I thinking of putting on dirty clothes, it's like, two steps away and green? Should I wear green? Maybe the maroon. _

_It does not matter if I wear green or maroon or sky-blue-pink with polka dots._

_I am so fired. I am so very fired. _

Willow threw on green robes and ran.

* * *

She expected to find her classroom occupied by impatiently waiting students, Hermione perhaps having pulled out a book to read, Cho probably tapping her quill on her inkpot like she did when she felt time was being wasted. What she found instead were empty desks, and the Headmaster.

"Severus suggested that perhaps your students would benefit from a day off," Dumbledore announced. "Given how rarely he is inclined to such benevolent impulses, I felt it best to humor him. I hope you won't mind."

"I'm fired," Willow blurted out dejectedly, not really processing his words. Her initial rush of adrenaline and bleary shock was wearing off, leaving her panting and flushed from her short run, and feeling a vague sense of impending doom. _This is over, isn't it? All of this. It's going to have to end._

"You are?" Dumbledore asked, in a tone of mild curiosity.

"I'm not?" she responded incredulously.

"If you'd prefer to be, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you give at least a month's notice. You signed a contract, Professor Rosenberg," Dumbledore intoned, quite seriously.

"No, I didn't," Willow argued, frowning in puzzlement.

"Didn't you?" Dumbledore asked, frowning right back at her. "You should have. All professors at Hogwarts work under a contract."

"I'm not really a professor," Willow pointed out, feeling a bit like sinking through the floor. _But I'm not, and I don't know who I've been thinking I've been fooling here - _

_- no, wait, I do. That'd be me. I've been doing a very good job of fooling me._

"I mean, this has been -" she paused and swallowed down the lump at the back of her throat. _So much more than I deserve or have a right to or . . or should have let myself get used to. _

_It's been . . a life. A life I'd choose if I had a choice which I don't and it's not seeming likely that I ever will but if I did . . I'd pick this. I'd pick stupid freezing Scotland and staircases that move and house elves and Draco and Hermione and . . and Severus . ._

" - it's been . . a lot. Meant a lot. It's been . . an amazing opportunity," Willow finished lamely. _That sounds like something you'd write on a college admissions essay. _

_Which is what I should be getting back to thinking about, I suppose. I should be re-applying to school somewhere._

_Maybe somewhere here-ish? Severus .. I think he'd want me to stay. Nearby. I want to stay nearby. I told him I wasn't going anywhere._

_But that was last night when I thought chocolate chips could save the world. This is .. now, and awake._

_And I don't want to go. I want to kick and scream and cry and not go. _

"But I'm not really a professor," she pressed on doggedly. "And . . I know what you said, back in the fall, about having a good imagination and all, but - I mean, Giles - and stuff - stuff that you know for real now - it'd probably be better if I just left. Before parents hear about this. That whole scene last night happened in front of some less-than-discreet paintings, y'know."

"Well then, if you're not really a professor, then I suppose I couldn't fire you even if I wanted to," Dumbledore mused aloud, and Willow wasn't sure whether she wanted to scream and pull her hair out or just start crying for sheer frustration at the amusement in his tone. _It's not funny. It's my life, and it's not funny. _

She just stood and stared, and something of her impatience must have shown in her face.

"Are you listening to me, Professor Rosenberg?" Dumbledore asked, tone sobering. "You are not a professor. You are not under contract, and as it so happens, your salary has been coming from my personal accounts. There are no official ties between yourself and Hogwarts."

"So . . I can't get you in trouble?" Willow ventured.

"Of course you can," Dumbledore said, cheerfully dismissive. "You can, and likely will, get me into a great deal of trouble, but I am not the school."

"Harry would argue that," Willow retorted, and then grimaced. "And that was so very not the point."

"Nothing of substance has changed," Dumbledore pointed out. "If anything, our circumstances are even more dire now than they were some four months ago." He paused, giving her an assessing look. "Did you know that beheading was legal in Muggle Germany as late as 1938?"

"Huh?" Willow blurted out. "I mean - actually, I did know that, I did a report on the death penalty in ninth grade and they were one of the last European countries to - not the point. Huh?"

"We in the Wizarding world like to think we are more civilized, substituting the Dementor's Kiss for the doling out of physical death," Dumbledore continued on, ignoring her confusion. "That's a lot of nonsense, of course, as we both know, but never the less, an execution is a shocking concept to a boy raised in Wizarding society, and young boys do love shocking things."

"Uh - sure," Willow agreed, feeling utterly lost, with more than a trace of annoyance creeping up at the back of her mind. _Would it be too much to ask that he just say whatever he's trying to say?_

"I'm attempting to explain, Miss Rosenberg, what myself and a young friend were doing at a Muggle execution in 1874," Dumbledore clarified. "The idea seemed quite thrilling at the time, and we reasoned that the poor man was going to lose his head whether we were there to see it or not - of course, the 'poor man' in question had murdered several young girls, but that was a fact I discovered later, in adulthood, when my conscience grew rather louder and my interest in whether a severed head would blink had waned somewhat."

Willow blinked, realized she was blinking, and couldn't help doing it again. _You blink, like, a bazillion times a minute._

_And now I'm going to be thinking about it every single time until I can get that oh-so-pleasant mental image out of my head._

_They do. Blink. At least if they're demons. Maybe that's different?_

_I'm blinking again._

_Are we nearing a point here?_

_Blink. Blink, blink, blink - argh!_

"It was not thrilling, Miss Rosenberg, as I'm certain you can imagine."

"Yeah," Willow agreed awkwardly. "Seeing people die, it's - really not thrilling."

"But my young friend thought that it really was," Dumbledore concluded, and there was something heavy in his voice. "He wanted to go see another, and I believe he did, more than once - I didn't accompany him again, but I didn't tell my parents, either, or his, or anyone else. Boys have a certain code of honor amongst themselves, about these sorts of things, and I kept it. At the time, it seemed the right thing to do - conveniently enough, considering it saved me the trouble of having to explain my own involvement."

"So - what happened?" Willow asked.

"I killed him," Dumbledore concluded flatly. "Seventy years later, after he'd killed a great many people in the mean time. He was, by that time, going by the name of Grindelwald."

"Oh," Willow said, realized her mouth was hanging open, and closed it.

"I will never know, you see, Miss Rosenberg, how differently the story might have ended, if I'd mentioned to someone all those years ago that something was wrong. That he was just a little too enamored of all the blood."

"But - you were just a kid," Willow argued. "You didn't know -"

"No, I didn't," Dumbledore cut her off. "And I wonder, and I regret, but I don't blame myself. One can be responsible for the things one has done, and for the things one clearly should have done, but not for one's lack of omniscience. It is a hard fact of life, Miss Rosenberg, that at times there is no truly right thing to do, only the best that we're able as we are in that moment. We can't send our later, better selves back."

"It's not the same," Willow argued instantly.

"How?" Dumbledore pressed.

"Because -" she stopped, and didn't know how to finish.

_Because it just is. Because yeah, maybe if you'd tattled it would have been different, and I was just saying that to make you feel better, though you apparently don't feel bad, and - and I do. _

"Because I'm not a kid," Willow said finally. "Maybe when it started but not - not when it ended, not now."

"Is it ended?" Dumbledore asked, peering at her from over the rims of his spectacles, with a look so piercing Willow couldn't imagine that he actually needed the glasses at all. "Have you put these things to rest in your head, that they are over and done and there is no changing them now?"

She didn't answer. _Explaining would take too long .. like maybe forever .. and screaming might be a little loud and uncalled-for._

"I won't ask you to forgive yourself, or Mr. Giles, or anyone else," Dumbledore said solemnly, standing and pressing a scrap of folded parchment into her hand. "That would not be my place. But make your peace, Miss Rosenberg, because we need you here and now."

Willow stared down at the crumpled parchment for long moments after he left before she finally opened it; scrawled inside was an address in London.

* * *

The address in London belonged to an upscale townhouse with green shutters and a plethora of window boxes, all of them currently overflowing with melting, faintly grayish slush. The pretty, dark-skinned woman who answered the door looked vaguely annoyed at first, as if she thought Willow might be selling something; then a light seemed to go on somewhere behind her eyes. Recognition was followed rapidly by very obvious distress.

"Hi," Willow said, trying to sound non-threatening. "Um, is Giles here? I mean, Rupert. Rupert Giles. I guess you call him Rupert, though I guess you know his last name too, and I'm really sorry to be bothering you, but – is he here?"

"I'll get him," Olivia said hastily, and disappeared, leaving Willow standing on the doorstep.

The street was quiet, but not empty, and Willow became uneasily aware of people staring. _Not like Sunnydale. I guess this is the sort of street where weird things don't happen. I guess leaving someone standing on outside your door is weirdness, so far as the folks who live here are concerned._

_I don't even wanna know how Dumbledore got this address. It's not like a hotel, he can't have called every house in London and asked if a Rupert Giles was staying there._

_At least, I don't think he could have . . and really I don't even know if Giles is staying here or like, actually living here now. Maybe he is._

_Maybe they live together and Giles' name is in the phone book and everything . . maybe they're married . . maybe all kinds of stuff happened while I was gone and it's not that Dumbledore's so all-knowing it's just that I'm so completely clueless, and – _

"I'm sorry," Olivia's face reappeared around the door, which was then pulled open. "Come in, please, he'll be right down." _No wedding ring. Good. I didn't miss Giles' wedding._

_Because Giles didn't have a wedding and you really need to work on keeping in touch with reality now._

"Thanks," Willow said nervously, stepping into a faintly cluttered foyer, very aware of the muddiness of her shoes, her cloak dripping onto the tile. There was luggage stacked by the door, with tags from LA and Sunnydale and Heathrow. _I almost missed him._ "So, um, how've you been?" Her voice squeaked.

"Oh, very well, thank you," Olivia responded, smiling a trifle too widely, fiddling with a button on the cuff of her shirtsleeve. "And you?"

It was clearly an automatic response; the moment the words left the older woman's lips, her eyes rounded almost comically.

"Good," Willow responded hurriedly. "I mean, okay. I've been okay. Not that bad, I mean, not as bad as you've probably – I mean -"

"Have you changed your mind?" a strident, familiar voice demanded; Olivia jumped, and Willow tensed, looking over the other woman's shoulder and seeing Giles taking the last step off a narrow wooden staircase.

"No," Willow answered resolutely, pulse thumping in her throat. Olivia murmured something unintelligibly fast, that involved the words 'tea' and 'privacy', and vanished back into the house.

"Then why are you here?" Giles asked, stopping just at the point where carpet met tile and sitting room turned into foyer. _Like he's staying on his side of the line. Drawing a line or holding a line or . . or damn it, we're outside the lines, here. We're already way outside the lines. _

_But I guess we're gonna have our little stand-off anyway. So much for being mature. _

_How old is he? I don't know how old he is, not exactly. He was always just . . old. I mean, not like, geriatric old, but like – _

_- like don't-touch old, and he can't be that much older than Severus, and he's acting like a child. It's daylight and I've had sleep and I'm not hysterical and he's really, really acting like a kid who missed his naptime. _

_But . . why am I here?_

_Because Dumbledore told me to? Oh, that's real grown up._

"Is everyone okay?" Willow blurted out.

Giles said nothing, just glared, and the glare said more clearly than any words could have that he didn't feel she had the right to ask that question. Willow fought the urge to squirm.

"Is everyone alive?" she pressed. "Or, at least, in the same state of life or un-life or whatever that they were before?" _I have a right to that much. _

"Everyone is more or less as you left them," Giles retorted neatly.

_That's not so much of a comforting answer._

_But it means nobody died, right?_

"It would have been worse if I stayed," Willow said quietly. "It was – I was worse."

"You cannot possibly know that," Giles insisted, cold and artificially calm. "You've no idea what's happened. You can't know whether you would have made it better or worse."

_Well I'd know if you'd tell me. This is stupid. This is beyond stupid. This is . . imbecilic._

"I made a decision," Willow said, and expected her voice to squeak. It didn't; she was surprised at how hard, how very not-sorry she sounded. _But I am sorry. I'm sorry this all happened like this and if you could stop standing there on your side of the line and being all disappointed and disapproving and stuff, maybe I could tell you that. Maybe you'd even believe me. But I guess we're not gonna do that._ "Maybe I didn't go about it like I should have but I just .. I just made a judgment call, that it was how things needed to be."

_And that should sound familiar._

"If you're waiting for me to apologize for not having told you about Wizarding society, I'm afraid you're going to have a very long wait," Giles retorted. "And for the record, you are not being subtle."

"I'm not trying to be subtle!" Willow snapped. "I'm trying to have a conversation like two grown-ups and you're not holding up your end of it!"

"I'd like to say that makes us even, but really, I don't think it does," Giles shot back.

"I didn't have an end of it!" Willow exclaimed. "I had algebra and homecoming and for God's sake my mother was still picking out my clothes! What the hell right do you think you had to let me take on any of this? I was -"

" – no younger than Buffy, and most determined," Giles interrupted fiercely. "Do not try to tell me now that anything I could have said or done would have kept you from becoming involved, once you knew what was out there, what was at stake."

"So 'cause I signed on that made me, what, in your chain of command or something?" Willow asked incredulously. "All this magic stuff was on a need-to-know basis? 'Cause besides the bigger issue of that really so not being your call, also I really think I needed to know. We needed to know – needed me to know. Do you know what I could have -"

"You could have left," Giles cut her off, quietly, and Willow stopped.

"Left," Willow repeated, and remembered her feverish imaginings of the night before. _I could have gone away to school in Roswell, or Roanoke . . but I would have come back . ._

"Yes, left," Giles said, a little louder, a little harsher, and somewhere under the hostility Willow could hear the weariness in his voice. "Been taken away. A witch of your potential power would not have been permitted to practice untrained, unchecked, and on a Hellmouth, no less. I don't suppose you've discovered, in your few months among others of your kind, how closely regulated is the practice of magic on a Hellmouth?"

It took Willow a moment to realize he actually expected an answer. "Uh – no?" she said, feeling disturbingly like she'd forgotten her homework. _I will not feel like that, damn it, I'm a grown-up adult type person and I am not wrong, here. I do not have to explain myself._

_Well, not about this, anyway._

"Extensive training is required, rigorous testing. Years of training and testing. Years in which you would not have been permitted to return, if the American Wizarding regulatory authorities had been aware of your presence in the first place," Giles explained. "The Watchers' Council is, for obvious reasons, somewhat more lax in their attitudes."

Willow was struck by the sudden, disorientingly clear memory of Tara blurting out 'five' when asked their magical proficiency level.

_I'm so sorry, baby. I don't know how this all happened, how it all ended up like this, and I'm sorry._

_I would never have even met her, if he'd told me, and I'd gone away to school. Never would have known her. Never would have loved her._

_Never would have hurt her. _

"So you didn't tell," Willow finished for him. "You just made the decision for me."

"You must have noticed by now that this culture, this society, is hardly a bastion of safety and enlightenment," Giles said. It wasn't an apology, but it sounded perilously close to a justification. _He knows he was wrong. _

"True," Willow allowed. "Except for the part where that had diddly squat to do with the decision you made, 'cause it didn't, did it?"

"It was a factor," Giles insisted. "Not the largest factor, no, but I took it into account."

"You mean it made you feel better," Willow retorted; it suddenly made sense, and she was just as suddenly exhausted again, and on the verge of tears. _He was wrong, damn it, it was my decision and he had no right and . . and I get it. _

_And I'd like to think I would have chosen to stay, and I thought he trusted me, and respected me, and he treated me like he thought I was sorta something like a grown-up, most of the time, and I thought . . well I just thought he trusted me, and he didn't._

_And I don't know if I would have trusted me either._

"What you took into account was Buffy. What having a witch around would mean for a Slayer's life expectancy."

_I would have too. I would have done anything for her. I did. I pulled her out of heaven because it was her, because we had to because it was Buffy, and didn't you know that? Didn't you know that I loved her too?_

_Not like Tara, not like . . that. But I loved her. _

"And if you expect an apology for that, I repeat, you're going to have a very long wait," Giles answered, voice going quiet again. "You joined the fight willingly. I did try to shelter you, as much as I was able."

"I was sixteen," Willow said. "Okay, maybe seventeen, by the time you knew I was any good at this stuff, but still - teen." _And you used me, and you're not sorry, and I want to hate you and I can't quite do it because I would have done it too. _

"And we were facing the end of the world," Giles reminded her. "More than once. What would you have done?"

"That's the point," Willow returned. "You didn't ask me."

"You were sixteen," Giles responded.

It went quiet, and into the sudden absence of things left to say, Olivia came clinking back out of the kitchen with a tea set balanced on a tray. She glanced assessing up at Watcher and witch as she bent to set the tea tray on a low table off to the left, just barely visible from the foyer. Willow thought she still looked unsettled but not so nervous, as if making tea had calmed her – or perhaps reminded her that this was her house.

"I should go," Willow said finally, and felt the words sinking down into her gut like lead. _I guess you're not apologizing and I'm not apologizing and nobody's sorry and everybody's feeling all justified and . . _

_. . and I think it's all too late to go back and make this better. I don't think there's anything else to say, now._

_It could have been different but it just wasn't._

_I'm sorry you feel like you shouldn't have trusted me even as much as you did. I'm sorry about that, 'cause boy do I get it. I didn't mean to not be who you thought I was._

"Yes, I think you should, if you're going. That is to say, staying," Giles agreed, but there was a hesitation, the faintest hint of residual hope. _I'm sorry._

"I'm staying," Willow confirmed. Olivia paused in setting teacups out on saucers, two already arranged, a third held hovering halfway between tray and tabletop.

"I am sorry to hear that," Giles offered; it still wasn't an apology, but it was something.

"Is everyone okay?" Willow asked again.

"No," Giles said bluntly, and Willow's stomach clenched. "But no one's died."

"What -" she began anxiously.

"We'll get along with you," Giles cut her off.

"You know – you know if it's ever the end of the world, where to find me," Willow said, resolve wavering. _Please don't hate me. _

_I think maybe I hate you just a little, and I can't forgive you, but . . but it's still you, you're still Giles, and if you're not who I thought you were and nothing was what I thought it was, it was still . . it was still something. It was still a lot, and I don't want you to hate me._

_We did the best we could. We all did the best we could and it just wasn't good enough._

"It isn't the end of the world," Giles told her. He didn't elaborate. Olivia set the third teacup back on the tray, upside down, and fiddled with the chain on the tea strainer.

"That's good," Willow said, biting her lip. _I'm going to cry again._

_But not in front of him. I will not cry in front of him._

She turned and let herself out the door.

* * *

The walk back in from Hogsmeade was long, wet, and painfully cold; Willow wandered the corridors of Hogwarts with her travel cloak still on, dripping on the floor, very pointedly ignoring the occasional sideways glance from a student when classes let out. She didn't want to go back to her rooms, which yesterday had been home, and now felt illogically as if they – the whole school, really, but mostly the places she'd lived the most – had somehow betrayed her, in letting her delude herself so badly.

She was tired, but there was no temptation to stop; walking was soothing. Gradually her clothes dried, and grew too hot to be worn indoors. She let the cloak fall back off her shoulders, carrying it around her elbows. It was really still too hot, hot enough to make her feel vaguely nauseous and overwhelmed, but she didn't want to stop anywhere that she could put it down.

When classroom doors opened for the second time and students again spilled out into the hallways, Willow realized she'd been meandering aimlessly for more than an hour. _This is silly. Stop it._

_I don't want to go to my rooms and there's no reason to go to my classroom and Severus won't even be in his rooms and I don't want to be in his rooms either anyway and –_

She stopped, and realized she was nearly to the door of one of the potions' labs; there were students leaving, which meant a class had just ended. Severus was levitating a gelatinous mass of some obviously-botched potion towards the refuse bin when she entered, an expression of utmost disgust on his face.

"What was that supposed to be?" she asked, wrinkling her nose; there was a strong smell of sulfur in the air. She sat at a desk towards the back.

"A hydrating serum," Severus answered, sounding somewhere between incredulous and pained.

"Second years?" Willow guessed.

"Fourth," he corrected. He muttered 'finite incantatem' with the glob of would-be hydrating serum a few inches above the bin, so that it fell with a rather sickening splat. A vaguely satisfied expression flickered briefly across his features at the sound.

"I thought hydrating serums were a second year thing," Willow said.

"They are," Severus concurred, finally glancing over at her. "But a hydrating serum is the base from which one concocts a headache remedy."

"Like what you gave me?" Willow asked, scowling accusatorily at him. "That knocked me out for half the day?"

"That was a slightly more advanced formulation," he said, smirking briefly back at her, before his expression went serious and wary. "How is your head now?"

"Attached at the neck," Willow said, shrugging. _How is my head .. my head would be a mess, at the moment. My head would have been turned upside down and shaken, and possibly dropped a few times._

He gave her an unreadable look, then moved on to setting up for his incoming class, retrieving various jars and pots from the adjacent storeroom.

"What've you got next?" Willow called out, tracing a circular burn mark on the desk in front of her.

"Third years, Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw," he answered, unscrewing the top to a bottle of what looked vaguely like dark purple worms, apparently finding it grudgingly acceptable, and setting it down on his desk.

"Mind if I stay?" Willow asked, not sure where the idea came from, but it was appealing. "Sit in, play along, like I used to when I first got here?"

"You know how to make a potion to prevent sunburn," Severus said.

"You're making sunscreen?" Willow asked, amused. "That's so neat."

"You don't know how to make a potion to prevent sunburn," he surmised, sounding scornfully disbelieving.

"I could figure it out, but . . " she shrugged, letting it trail off. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not."

"I'll need to borrow a cauldron."

He disappeared once more into the storeroom, and came back out with a heavy cauldron of polished bronze, smoother and deeper than what most of the students had.

"This is yours," Willow said, surprised.

"I was aware," Severus drawled.

"Not afraid I'll blow it up?" she teased.

"I have others," he responded dryly; she stuck her tongue out, and at the same time the first students walked in the door, a gaggle of Ravenclaw girls all crushed together and whispering. A girl with long pale hair giggled loudly.

"If you would kindly remember that this is a class and not a social event, Miss Clearwater?" Severus sneered, turning in a billow of robes to glare at his pupils. The girl in question stuttered out something incomprehensible. "Take your seat, Miss Clearwater," he instructed dismissively, and the girl scurried off towards the front of the classroom, her friends scattering to their various places, now all silent but darting furtive glances at one another.

_Somebody's gonna lose points for passing notes today, I think. Wonder what happened that's so giggle-worthy. _

More students trickled in, and Willow noticed that the original group of giggling girls all seemed to find a reason to be looking at Miss Clearwater about the time a dark-haired Hufflepuff boy entered the room.

"Now, today, we will be brewing a potion used to ward against the harmful effects of over-exposure to sunlight," Snape began, when the classroom was nearly full. "And ten points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Dearden, for your habitual tardiness," he added in a sneer as a tall, gangly boy came running in the door. "Now that you've seen fit to grace us with your presence, perhaps you could tell me one of the key ingredients to the potion we'll be making today."

_He really can be such an ass. If I'd had him for a teacher I'd have hated his guts._

"Uh -" stammered the Ravenclaw, who hadn't heard what potion was to be made.

"Perhaps someone else actually read last week's assignment," Snape cut him off, and hands shot up around the classroom. Severus gave Willow a very pointed look, clearly indicating that she should not be the one to answer.

_Well, it's not like I know, anyway._

_Though I'd think maybe zinc ore, or maybe –_

She made a point of very obviously folding her hands in her lap.

_- or maybe I'll just listen. Maybe that'd be good enough, for today._

TBC . .


	35. All Fall Down

Title: All Fall Down

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: Where is the Wizarding world going these days – and what's it doing in that handbasket?

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" and "Half-Blood Prince" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

* * *

13 February 2004  
**PROTEST AT MINISTRY TURNS VIOLENT - ONE DEAD, DOZENS WOUNDED**  
By D. Eaves

What began as a peaceful protest outside the Ministry of Magic early this morning erupted quickly into violence. Several individuals were injured, and one wizard is dead. This is the fourth such incident since the trials of several self-described 'Death Eaters' began last month, but the first to result in a fatality.

The Citizens' Coalition for the Free Practice of Magic – a private group formed to oppose the prosecutions - are denying any official involvement in today's events. However, witnesses report that several outspoken members of the Coalition were in fact present, but avoided arrest. The disturbance was timed to interrupt the transfer of convicted Dark wizard and self-described 'Death Eater' Walden MacNair from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, London Facility, to Azkaban prison.

Officials fear that the riot may have been witness by several Muggles who have yet to be apprehended and Obliviated.

"It was chaos, utter chaos," said Auror Algernon T. Grouse. Ar. Grouse had been involved in the 21 December raid on Malfoy Manor, and his testimony was pivotal to the conviction of Mr MacNair. "There's just no way we got them all, and there were some pretty flashy hexes being thrown around."

One of those hexes hit a passing Muggle vehicle, causing it to swerve into the crowd of protestors. Mr Irving Weir, owner of Weir's Cauldron Shop in Diagon Alley and a vocal opponent of the recent high-profile prosecution of crimes against Muggles and the practice of the Dark Arts, was trapped beneath the Muggle vehicle. Mr Weir was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Mungo's hospital; the Muggle driver was also killed. Several other protestors and at least three Aurors are being treated for various injuries.

Protestors had attempted to rush Mr MacNair's escort as they exited the Ministry building, with the intent of pressing in too closely for them to be able to Apparate away. It is being speculated that some involved may have planned to free MacNair – though no one is admitting to any such plan. The Aurors escorting Mr MacNair tried to push their way through the crowd and that, witnesses say, is when things got out of hand.

It is not yet known who threw the fatal hex, or whether its interference with a Muggle vehicle was intentional. Representatives for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office had no comment for reporters earlier this morning. The street has been cordoned off -under the pretense of a sewage leak, so far as the Muggles are concerned – and a thorough investigation is being conducted. Several individuals involved in the protest are currently being held for questioning.

"No one meant for this to happen," said Mrs Mildred Lynch, of Oxford. "But someone has to do something, it's not right, what's happening to these people for the private exercise of magic in –

* * *

Hermione put the Daily Prophet down on the table next to her plate of untouched toast, folding it carefully so that the front page story was tucked away, and an advertisement for self-heating socks faced upward. She smoothed the fold over several times, feeling a faint trembling in her fingers and surprised to see that her hand was not, in fact, shaking. The newsprint was dry under her fingertips, a texture that usually made her skin crawl, especially in the cold, dry depths of winter.

It felt suddenly too warm in the great hall; robes that had been barely sufficient to ward off the chill when she put them on less than an hour ago were abruptly stifling.

_The private practice of magic. None of the Ministry's business. Not right what's happening to them – what's happening to THEM – _

_- died in a car crash, it was a car crash, really a car crash, how DARE they – how dare they say it's no one's business and how dare they protest and how dare they die so easily, so quickly, I bet he didn't feel a thing, didn't even see it coming, wasn't tied down and wasn't made to wait and bleed and suffer and one dead – the headline said one dead, but the Muggle driver was killed too, but that's not one, is it, that's a private matter in one's own home and how can they – how CAN they - _

_- and how can there be a stack of letters under your bed full of dark spells. Things you could be arrested for, if you were past the age of majority – might be arrested for anyway, with everything that's going on._

_Everything that's going on. Is that how you think about it now? Why don't you write an essay about it for History of Magic, then, since it's such an interesting legal conundrum, such a fascinating bit of fucking social theory, everything that's going on – like it's nothing – like they were NOTHING and how DARE they! _

_It's not the same. I want to be able to defend myself, defend myself against THEM because if they killed me or raped me or tied me down and bled me and left me lying there with blood pooling in my skull and HOW DARE THAT BASTARD DIE IN A FUCKING CAR CRASH – _

_- it would just be a private matter. That's all. _

She looked up, and Harry and Ron were watching her warily across the table.

"It's nothing, it's just -" she stopped, gesturing helplessly at the paper.

"Yeah," said Ron sympathetically.

"I think I'll go to the library," Hermione announced, to no one in particular, not looking at Ron. _Don't be sorry for me, I can't stand it._ "I need to study for Mundane Injuries and Maladies, we're having a quiz." She let her eyes flicker upward for a moment as she gathered her books; there was a hard, determined, awful expression on Harry's face.

_He thinks it's his fault. He thinks it's all his fault. _

_If he'd just – _

_- no. No, no, no, never. I will never think that. _

_Like I never swear, and I'd never do more than kiss a boy, and I'd never forget a paper, and I'd never be studying the Dark Arts?_

_I will never understand this. I will never understand how people can think like those people do, like we're nothing, like my mother was nothing, my father was nothing, I'm worse than nothing, and sometimes I feel like worse than nothing and – _

_- and it's not his fault. _

"See you in DADA, then," Ron said, and impossibly, at the mention of the joke that was Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry's expression grew even darker. For a moment Hermione's eyes caught Harry's, and there was a flicker of something unspoken between them, something solemn and terrible.

_Maybe something that only people whose mothers are rotting in the ground will understand. _

_We're the ones left, the ones left to do something. To fight back, and it's okay to fight back, okay to defend yourself, okay to want – _

_- not justice. There can't be justice. I don't want justice, I want them all bleeding. _

"See you then," Hermione said to Ron, in a voice that was calm and normal and sounded too distant, like it was someone else speaking.

* * *

The staff room made Willow nervous. She avoided it when possible, which was most of the time.

'_Cause I'm not so much staff, really. _

_But Severus wasn't at breakfast so – _

_- so you need to act like a demented stalker, apparently. _

_I'm not stalking. I'm checking-up-on. Perfectly reasonable. Besides I am sorta a teacher and it's just the staff lounge and it's not that scary and I really must get over this whole feeling like I'm fifteen thing at some point. _

_For pete's sake I'm kinda-sorta-dating the professor most likely to give me detention anyway. _

_Which I can't get – detention, that is – because I am not a student and I need to just get over it! _

She stuck her head in the door, unconsciously biting her lip. Flitwick was sitting at the far end of the table apparently grading papers; Minerva McGonagall seemed to be trying to do something to the coffee pot, pointing her wand at it and muttering.

"Fiddling with a person's morning coffee is just not amusing, Electra," McGonagall called out in a rather annoyed tone when she heard the door open. "That stuff you call – oh, hello, Willow," she cut off, when she turned and saw who it was. "You're not who I was expecting. Never mind about the coffee – though there's none that's drinkable if you were looking for it." She grimaced. "Well, unless you like this decaffeinated swill." Her expression indicated that the brewing of decaffeinated coffee should perhaps be considered a crime against humanity.

"Uh, no?" Willow responded hesitantly; Severus did not appear to be in the staff room.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," McGonagall pronounced.

"Actually I mostly drink tea," Willow confessed. "Though, the real kind. With caffeine," she offered almost apologetically. _And why am I all cringing and stuff over my choice in hot beverages?_

_Because it's McGonagall and she's scary._

"You and Severus," McGonagall sighed, shaking her head as she pour Electra Vector's pot of decaf coffee down the sink. "Not that I don't appreciate a good cup of tea, but in the morning -" she glanced up, and saw Willow turning very red.

_Me and Severus, as in me and Severus both drink tea, and you know, maybe fifteen is really overestimating your mental age. _

"Were you looking for him?" McGonagall asked, a sly sort of half-grin tugging at the corners of her usually stern lips.

"No!" Willow yelped reflexively. "I mean – yes, but, it's nothing important." _We're in the realm of junior high and backsliding rapidly here. _

"He had something to discuss with Draco Malfoy, I think," McGonagall said, turning away again to rummage through the cabinets over the sink. "There was an owl from the Ministry. Poor boy," she added, as an afterthought. "I've tried not to be so hard on him, but he does not make it easy." She glanced up at Willow, clearly expecting some commentary on the subject of Draco.

"He's got some attitude issues," Willow offered. McGonagall snorted.

"That's one way of putting it," she returned, glancing back at the younger witch. "Are you coming in, or are you planning on standing in the doorway all morning?"

"I guess I could make some tea," Willow offered, stepping hesitantly in to the lounge. "Since you don't have coffee."

"Oh, there will be coffee," McGonagall vowed, slamming a cabinet shut. "Just as soon as I figure out where Electra hid the beans."

_Couldn't she just transfigure the decaf back into, well, caf?_

_Maybe it doesn't taste quite the same. Or doesn't get you quite as buzzed? _

A post owl swooped suddenly in past Willow's shoulder, making her jump; it landed in the middle of the table, the breeze from its wings catching several of Flitwick's papers and sending them fluttering to the ground. It shuffled around, eyeing the room's occupants, and finally settled its stare on Willow.

"Probably for Dumbledore," McGonagall surmised, when the owl didn't approach either professor. Flitwick was levitating the papers one by one back onto the table surface, giving the owl a faintly annoyed glare. "The wards on the Headmaster's office confuse them sometimes."

McGonagall reached out to take the parchment affixed to the little tawny owl's leg; it turned and nipped at her, its beak clicking together with a sharp snap.

"Blasted little -" McGonagall muttered, slipping off into sub-audible grumbles as she inspected her fingers for damage. The owl blinked, turned its huge round eyes back to Willow, and took a few waddling steps in her direction. _Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?_

"Now, see here – mangy little bugger!" McGonagall yelped, as she reached determinedly for the owl and it snapped at her again. It shuffled closer to the far edge of the table, closer to the door, and Willow. McGonagall followed the line of its gaze. "Fine, it likes you, you try!" she said with an irate huff.

Willow eyed the owl with uncertainty bordering on panic. "Hi," she greeted it warily, in a voice that squeaked.

It trotted right across the table, hopped to the back of a nearby chair, and obligingly held out its leg. McGonagall threw her hands up in clear disgust and turned back to the cabinets and her missing coffee beans.

Willow hastily untied the bit of shoelace that was holding the envelope – not a parchment after all, upon closer inspection – to the owl's leg, feeling an increasing sense of wrongness. _That envelope looks too . . ordinary. Not like, here ordinary. Like Muggle ordinary. _

"Is it for Dumbledore?" McGonagall asked, head stuck so far into the cabinet it looked like she ought to be through the wall. Willow flipped the envelope over, and for a moment, didn't answer.

"Is it?" McGonagall pressed, extricating herself from various biscuit tins and jars of tea, and tensing at Willow's shell-shocked expression. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Willow said. "I mean, nothing. Probably nothing. It's just – it's for me."

* * *

"Maybe he's not coming," Myrtle suggested, obviously trying to sound neutral and not quite managing.

"He's coming," Ginny argued calmly. Calliope was climbing over her hands, one hand lifted up and then the other to give the ghostly little rat somewhere to run. It felt like running cool water through her hands, if water could have tiny paws and little pinprick claws.

In a stall at the back of the bathroom, painstakingly warded against both moisture and discovery, lay a stack of Salazar Slytherin's books. She and Draco had carefully selected those books that were sufficiently preserved to be moved to this more convenient location and brought them above ground for further restoration – the climb down to the Chamber took half a day, which made it a little impractical.

She still opened it almost every day, though, and let the snakes play over her hands – before Draco got there, usually, though not today with Myrtle watching. _Very early when I can't sleep any more._

_I wish I could just sleep down there, but it'd take too long, getting up and down every morning and night._

"Breakfast must be almost over," Myrtle pointed out. "It's hardly worth bothering by now. He's very rude."

"Yes," Ginny agreed, as Calliope paused, sniffed, and suddenly seemed to realize that she wasn't making any actual progress forward. "Very rude."

"Don't you think you ought to mind?" Myrtle pressed; Ginny put the now impatiently squirming rat onto a nearby sink. It made an unnecessary leap up into the air, paddling little paws, making its way back to its mistress. Myrtle grabbed it up out of the air in a distracted sort of way, watching Ginny, and put it on her head. Calliope became instantly fascinated with rearranging Myrtle's translucent hair.

"She still does that," Ginny observed, tilting her head. "Kicks like she's swimming. She's been dead for months and doesn't understand yet that she can just float."

"Are you in love with him?" Myrtle blurted out.

"What?" Ginny asked, confused.

"Draco," Myrtle said.

"I was talking about the rat," Ginny responded impatiently, frowning. "It's like she doesn't know what she is, that she's a ghost." _Doesn't know what she can do. What she could do if she understood what she was. _

_I need to understand, need to, because there's got to be some purpose, some reason this all had to happen this way, some – _

_- some way to pay for it all, for Myrtle who I killed and the basilisk who wasn't a monster and Jupiter, Jupiter's blood all over me and I don't suppose it was his fault either. Not his fault they made him into a monster and no one, no one will make me, no one will twist me and break me and where's Riddle – where's that devil-spawn little bastard - _

_- but I'm not, not the devil and not there anymore and not Lord Voldemort. _

_Dead and gone and over, it's all over, paid so much and didn't buy a thing. There must be something – something - _

"But he's late and you're not mad at him, so are you in love with him?" Myrtle insisted belligerently. "You are, aren't you? You're in love with him and you're going to go off and marry him and have lots of babies and forget all about me."

"I'm trying to figure something out about the rat," Ginny snapped, heard the biting edge to her own voice, and blushed. _Can't think about that now, not about falling in love and kissing and I kissed him and – can't think about that now. Not now._ "I think it might be important."

_Because he's still out there, isn't he? Lord Voldemort. The other – the other me. _

_But not me, not me. Just a thing I made up, made up in the cold and the dark and the bleeding and trying to hold a pen with swollen broken fingers and it hurt so much, so much, and your penmanship is shameful, boy, you'll write that line fifty times until you get it right and cold – cold water – hold your hand under the cold water long enough and it'll go numb – go numb – I am Lord Voldemort – _

_- not anymore. Over. Dead and frozen and over._

_But not over. Not over out there. The thing I made is still out there. The thing I gave life and flesh and power and - _

"You're ignoring me already," Myrtle pouted.

"No, I'm not, I'm just -" Ginny's frown deepened and she shook her head, trying to clear the static buzzing, the feeling of trying to see something through a fog. " – never mind, I don't know what I was thinking about." _A thing I don't need anymore. Like a ghost trying to swim in the air. _

_But how do you take it back? You can't, can't ever take anything back._

The door to the bathroom banged open so hard it bouncing off the wall. Draco stomped in, throwing his books down on the floor with such force that they skidded off into a corner.

_Are you in love with him? You are, aren't you? _

_I don't know – don't know anything – there's no room in my head for that but – _

_- but he sees. _

Draco flopped down on the floor next to where Ginny was sitting, propping his head back against a sink. "Weasel, Dead Girl," he said, nodding in Myrtle's direction by way of greeting.

Myrtle gave an offended huff, and swooped off into a stall.

"Don't know why that pisses her off," Draco shrugged, still facing forward, addressing a random bit of water-stained ceiling as Ginny watched the side of his face. "She's a girl, she's dead." He seemed to feel Ginny's eyes on him and turned sideways. "What?"

"You meant to piss her off," Ginny said.

"Yeah, probably," Draco allowed, shrugging irritably. "I'm just a git like that, right?"

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked.

He got up, pushing himself away from the sinks with angry, exaggerated movements, stalking across the room to the pile of his books. They'd come loose of their strap and were lying in a disorganized huddle. He tossed texts aside until he got to the one he apparently wanted, opened it, and pulled a folded parchment out of the cover. He tossed it in Ginny's lap as he made his way back towards her.

She flipped it over; there had been a Ministry of Magic seal on it, now broken. The edges of the parchment were crinkled where someone had gripped it too tightly.

"I'm not doing fucking restoring charms today," Draco announced, tone hostile and challenging. "I'd probably fucking blow something up. In fact, I don't want to go to class today either, or be in this fucking school or have to deal with fucking people, but I suppose I have to. If I don't I might flunk and then I might not be able to get a job at fucking Flourish and Blotts or wherever I'm going to be spending my life doing fucking menial labor so I can fucking eat."

_You swear too much, it sounds silly,_ Ginny thought, but didn't say it, and unfolded the parchment.

* * *

Professor Severus Snape:

The Dept. of Magical Law Enforcement has received and carefully considered your petition on behalf of Mr. Draco Malfoy in regard to several properties seized by the DMLE on 21 Dec. 2003.

Unfortunately, we are unable to comply with your request at this time, owing to several factors with which you are undoubtedly familiar, not least of these being the lack of any substantial proof as to the death of Mr. Lucius Malfoy. In the absence of proof of death the aforementioned properties must remain, legally, in the ownership of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and will continue to be held by the DMLE until such time as he is apprehended, tried, and either convicted or acquitted of the several charges currently brought against him, which I'm sure I don't need to enumerate here.

Your renewed offer of cooperation with our ongoing investigation is, as ever, much appreciated, but your testimony remains unneeded at this time. You will be kept appraised of further developments.

Sincerely,  
Edna L. Windish, Assistant Director, Dept. Magical Law Enforcement

* * *

- their own homes. I can't see how it's the Ministry's business if a witch or a wizard is performing Dark spells in their own home – or, well, as a guest in another's home, but the point is, we're sending a wizard away for life for a crime in which no witch or wizard was harmed. Well, until the Ministry got involved, that is."

The sentiment on the street today was sharply divided. Many are blaming the Ministry for the casualties both of today's unfortunate events and the raid on 21 December.

One angry wizard – who could not be later located for comment - jinxed the Aurors escorting Mr. MacNair so that the word "MURDERERS!" flashed in bright red above their heads for several hours before a counter-jinx could be found. A witch near the back of the crowd carried a sign that read 'Remember Pansy' – referring to Miss Pansy Parkinson, the 5th year Hogwarts student who was killed in the Malfoy Manor raid. The Ministry claim Death Eaters were responsible. Miss Parkinson's family – those not currently evading location by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – claim she was killed by Aurors.

Others, fewer in number but no less passionate in their views, support the Ministry and its prosecution of the so-called 'Death Eaters'.

"It's about time someone held them accountable," said Mrs. Gretel Wolvington of Whitechapel. "These people attacked Hogwarts students back in the fall, doesn't anyone remember that? They're getting their orders from You-Know-Who, and everyone knows it."

Those opposed to the prosecution, however, maintain that claims of You-Know-Who's return are unsubstantiated rumors, and the real issue is privacy rights.

"They'd love it if You-Know-Who were really involved in this, wouldn't they?" said Mr. Darius Mountbank of Westminster. "Then they'd have a good excuse for barging into innocent people's homes. Hey, I killed a goose for my dinner last night, will they be arresting me for that next?"

Mr. MacNair, meanwhile, will be spending another day in a holding cell beneath the Ministry, before being turned over to the Dementors. Three more self-described Death Eaters are currently being tried before the Wizengamot. Several other participants in what has been called the Malfoy Manor Incident have been convicted of lesser charges and released with fines, or bespelled to limit their magical abilities for a period of time. More than two dozen witches and wizards remain officially missing and wanted for questioning by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

In addition, DMLE officials are still investigating the rash of unexplained fires that began last week. Fires continue to plague several major cities. As of yet, there is no firm proof that these fires are magical in origin, but it is strongly suspected. The homes and business affected have all belonged to Muggles with no obvious ties to the Wizarding community, and appear to be random. Unconfirmed sightings of the 'Dark Mark' remain a near-daily occurrence around the country.

DMLE officers urge witches and wizards to continue to report any suspected Dark magical activity and to remain calm. Many remember the snake-and-skull symbol as You-Know-Who's calling card, but DMLE officials insist that it would be impossible for any one wizard to be responsible for every reported sighting. They say that, since the attacks on Hogwarts students this past November, no new sighting of the 'Dark Mark' has yet been linked to any act of violence.

"They're just doing it to stir people up," Ar. Grouse told us. "We have no reason to believe, as of now, that this use of the symbol is related to .. well, to how they used it last time."

Some witches and wizards, however, are not reassured.

"It's not over," said a witch who asked not to be named, and seemed fearful of the opinions of her neighbors. "I wish I thought it was, but from where I'm sitting, things are just going to get uglier."

* * *

Willow,

Hi. It's Dawn.

* * *

TBC . . . 


	36. Unsaid

Title: Unsaid

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled guinea pigs.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: This one's not summarizing well. I may give up on chapter summaries.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

* * *

Willow,

Hi. It's Dawn.

I'm not really sure why I'm writing. Giles told us a little about where you are, and then I bugged Anya into telling me the rest - well, not about you in particular, she wouldn't know that stuff, but about the whole wizard society thing. Pretty weird. That's not why I'm writing.

My arm was broken in two places. I was in a cast for six weeks. That's not why I'm writing either.

I suppose I don't need to tell you that Giles is still very mad. Buffy was a little mad at Giles, too, when it turned out he'd been keeping secrets, still. And he made us all promise to keep secrets too, if we contacted you. I'm not going to tell you what's been going on around here - not because of Giles, who I think is being kind of a jerk, but because you haven't earned it. If you want to know what's going on, come home. I'm not going to tell you it's all okay, either. It's not. It's bad.

And I still don't know why I'm writing.

* * *

" - be happening in an election year," said the portly wizard at the next table over, slouched back in his chair and sipping a pint of the Three Broomstick's butterbeer, looking very confident of his point. The witch sitting next to him snorted in cynical agreement.

"Of course not," agreed the wizard across the table; he wasn't as plump as his companion, but he was by no means thin, and his robes were of a very fine material. "Fudge is no idiot -"

"Oh, he's an idiot," the first wizard cut in. "But he's a clever idiot. No real brains, but he knows how -"

"Crazy like a fox, that's what you mean," the witch cut in. "Thinks he can get away with anything, and usually does." Her hat was topped with enough feathers that it must have been the death of half a dozen birds, all of them exotically plumed. _Probably endangered species, not that any of them would care about that - the Wizarding world's never even heard of environmentalism, I suppose. _

_I don't suppose a society that still keeps slaves - and that's what house elves are, I don't care what Ron or Hagrid say - I don't suppose a society like that is likely to care about sending a few birds into extinction. _

_Not likely to care how much violence and death and - _

_- no, stop it, don't think about it! You were thinking about politics and birds, that woman's stupid hat, her hat that probably cost two dozen galleons and was made by house elves who iron their hands if they make a mistake and she thinks it makes her better, that hat, that stupid bloody hat and the money to buy it and the blood and the name that got her the money - the blood - blood - cause of death was - _

_- stop it, stop it, stop it! _

_How can they be so - so blind and insular and brainwashed - _

"It'll blow over," the second wizard said dismissively. "There's nothing to it, really - you watch, two years from now we're going to see a rash of pardons and apologies and everyone will be wondering what the fuss was about."

"And Fudge'll be the first to wring his hands and talk about unfortunate mistakes made," the rotund wizard added on, saluting his companion with his butterbeer. "Lot of nonsense, treating it like - "

"Murder," the witch interrupted in a melodramatic drawl, and then tittered nastily. "Have you heard that? Those fanatics are calling it murder. Really!"

Hermione clutched her mug of butterbeer until she felt her fingertips going numb, a hot white buzzing filling her ears.

_Have you heard that? Those fanatics are calling it murder. Really! _

_She should bleed - let her see what it feels like - let someone hit her in the head hard enough to make blood pool up in her skull and tie her down and carve her up like a goose at Christmas while she's still alive and bleeding and let's see what's fanaticism then, let's see if she thinks it's murder then - _

"Hermione?"

She jumped, and butterbeer sloshed over her hands, onto the edges of her sleeves.

"Oh, I'm such a -" she began, grabbing for napkins with shaking hands.

"Here," Viktor cut her off, taking hold of her hands and shoving napkins into her sleeves to soak up the beer.

"I can do that myself," she protested irritably; they were laughing at something now, over at the next table, but she hadn't heard what. _I shouldn't be trying to. I shouldn't be paying them any attention, he's only here for a few hours, and there will always - there will always be people like that - I can't do anything about it - _

_- but I can't stand it, I can't stand the thought that they're sitting over there laughing at it - laughing at it - _

"I was trying to help," Viktor said, scowling, looking somewhere halfway between worried and annoyed. _Oh, don't be angry, please, I don't mean it - I just can't - can't - can't anything - _

"I know," Hermione said, sighing. "I mean, I'm sorry, I was just -" she stopped, at a loss for an explanation. _I can't keep being a mess all the time, can't think about anything else, and I have to, have to pay attention and not snap at him and act like a human being even if I don't feel like one, even if I feel like I'm just rage inside a skin, because why - why would he want that, why would he want to be with that - _

"Right, right!" said the overdressed wizard at the next table, too loudly, amused, and Hermione's eyes slid sideways without her meaning them to. She averted them hastily, crossing her wrists and digging her fingers into her damp sleeves, before venturing a glance up at Viktor's face.

He'd followed her gaze, frowning, then catching her eyes as he turned back.

"What were they saying?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she snapped out, and his glower darkened. "I mean - it's nothing - I shouldn't be paying attention, you were saying -" But she had no idea what he'd been saying. Ten minutes ago he'd been telling her about Ana having a boyfriend, and how he didn't like the boy very much, but then she'd heard the words 'trial' and 'Wizengamot' and 'Fudge' from elsewhere in the room.

They'd asked for Viktor's autograph when they came in, those same two wizards and the witch in the avian massacre of a hat, and he'd given it graciously enough. They'd given her curious sidelong looks, smiling politely, faintly disapproving while he was looking down at the parchment. He hadn't noticed. She hadn't said anything. _There will always be people like that and I can't - I can't -_

_- I can't not, can't ignore it, I just can't do it. _

"Do you want to leave?" Viktor asked, shooting the group another glare; they seemed to have noticed him looking, and quieted. The witch smiled at him a little hopefully, despite his murderous expression. _She's old enough to be his grandmother, the disgusting old hag! Why does she get to be here - why is she alive, why is that waste of space in that hideous hat here, and not my mother -_

"No, it's okay," Hermione answered, forcing her lips into a smile. _I can't be like this all the time. Not when he's here. He won't want me anymore. _"You're not finished your dinner."

"You are not eating yours at all," he pointed out. "We could go some other place - if you do not like this food -"

"No, it's fine, I like it," Hermione insisted, eyes flickering down to her nearly full plate of fish and chips and wondering how she was going to get that all down without being sick. "Though, if you don't like it -"

Viktor shrugged. "It is good," he said, without much enthusiasm.

"You don't like it," she surmised. "You should have said -"

"No, it is good," he interrupted, going sullen. "It is just food. I was thinking you liked it here."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, just above a whisper, picking at the napkins still tucked into her sleeves. "We can go."

"We do not have to," he argued mulishly. "I want to do whatever you want." The conversation was picking up again at the next table, a quieter buzz from which Hermione could only decipher a few words. She heard the word 'underage' and then, she thought, maybe, 'mudblood'. Her face went red, and she couldn't stop it. _I can't be like this all the time, I have to stop it! _

Hermione grabbed for her butterbeer, burying her face in the mug while her eyes darted nervously up to Viktor's face, hoping that maybe somehow he hadn't noticed. She saw his expression darken, eyes narrowing.

"The things you are hearing, I think I hear now too," he said, looking like he wanted to hit something. His chair scraped loudly on the floor as he shifted it back, ready to stand. Hermione put down her butterbeer and pushed her own chair back so quickly she almost tipped it, leaping to her feet.

"Let's go," she said, reaching across the table and grabbing his wrist. "Come on, let's just go, I'm not hungry."

"I signed things for them," Viktor protested, righteously indignant.

"It doesn't matter," Hermione pleaded. _Nothing matters, you can't do anything, and if you get in a fight it'll be in all the papers, it'll be a scandal, and I can't let that happen because of me - no one else can be hurt because of me - _

_- because I want you to do it, I want you to hurt them, I want to hurt them, want to make them bleed and scream and pay -_

_- but you'll pay, you'll pay for it in the end, for me, for my dirty blood and it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - and all it costs is just a little blood, just a few hours of being tied down and screaming and bleeding and dying, but really, it's the very best school that there is - _

_- and you can't pay for me too. _

"W-was everything alright?" asked Madam Rosmerta, suddenly at Hermione's shoulder and smiling nervously, eyeing Hermione's untouched plate. She'd been near to giddy when they came in _- _when Viktor came in, I've nothing to do with it - now she looked like she just might cry.

"Wonderful," Hermione blurted out automatically. "I'm just -" she almost said 'feeling sick', which wouldn't have been very much of a lie. _But I can't say that, can I, someone might overhear and if I say I'm feeling queasy they'll put it in the papers that I'm pregnant. _" - not that hungry."

"The food, it was good," Viktor said in a tone that suggested the opposite, handing her several coins. "We did not care for the company," he added darkly, glaring one last time at the table next to theirs. The witch in the awful hat was still trying to smile winningly back. The fat wizard raised his butterbeer in salute. _Are they blind? Can't they see the look on his face? _

"Oh," Madam Rosmerta said, flushing. "W-were people bothering you? We have p-private d-dining rooms if -"

"It's not your fault," Hermione interjected, wrapping her scarf around her neck and turning away, heading for the door. _It's just the way things are, and there's nothing you can do about it.

* * *

_

You were there all summer. When Buffy was gone, you were there. So were Tara and Giles and Xander and even Anya, I guess, but mostly you were. I think Tara would have made me pancakes no matter what, and Giles would have made sure I had money to buy shoes and toothpaste and stuff, and Xander . . would have been Xander, but that's not the point. The point is you were the one who held it together. That's how it seemed at the time, anyway.

But you didn't really hold it together. That whole time, you were trying to find a way to get Buffy back.

You brought Buffy back. You pulled her out of heaven and you hurt her, you hurt her more than I think you're ever going to understand, and you were wrong, and I should hate you.

I don't hate you.

* * *

"You should read this, Weasel," Draco commented. Ginny looked up from Salazar Slytherin's diary, glancing across Myrtle's bathroom to where Draco sat propped up against a sink, one of Slytherin's ancient books in his lap. Myrtle herself was nowhere to be found today. _Probably down to the lake - the books bore her. _"This is bloody fucking amazing."

"What is?" Ginny asked, eyes darting back down to the diary, and she surreptitiously turned a page. She was beginning to be able to pick out a word here and there in Old English. _His plans for the Chamber, spells and charms and theories and I can get bits of it - just bits and pieces - _

_- would get more if he'd read it to me but he's more interested in the other books - thinks I ought to be more interested in the other books _- but they didn't hold her attention for long.

"There's an incantation in here that'll let you understand anyone or anything," Draco said, sounding very impressed. "Any language at all."

She frowned. "Isn't that just a translating charm? We learned those in 3rd year." He was shaking his head rapidly.

"No, it's not," he insisted. "Translating charms just - if you cast a translating Charm on this book, it'd all turn into modern English, except half of it would be wrong, and the grammar would be all fucked up – well, unless you were really an expert at translating charms, but even if you were they'd still be useless for speaking, or understanding something spoken instead of written. They're too slow."

"So how's the spell in the book different?" she asked, trying not to let her impatience come through in her voice, stealing furtive glances down at the diary. _It's not important anyway - this is what's important, what's in here - this is what I have to figure out - _

"It doesn't translate," he said. "It - teaches, or makes you understand, or something like that. You cast it on yourself and someone who already knows whatever it is you're trying to read or speak or whatever, and it sort of . . makes a copy, I guess, of their understanding, copies it into your brain, so you understand."

"So, you could cast it on me - on you and me - and I could read Old English?" Ginny asked hopefully, her interest sparking.

His eyes rounded, horrified. "Hell no!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't try to cast this on a gerbil, Weasel, this is so fucking advanced it's scary. You point a finger the wrong way while you're casting it and you'd turn your brains into scrambled eggs."

"Oh," she responded, disappointed, and looked back down to the diary, turning another page.

"It's not the language part that's so fucking brilliant, anyway, it's the – the copying part," Draco finished, grimacing in frustration and clearly at a loss for words. "You really ought to read this, it's exactly the sort of thing they don't teach in Magical Theory here, too close to the Dark Arts I guess - it's sort of like the reverse of Obliviating someone, and sort of like -"

"You sound like Hermione," Ginny interrupted distractedly, frowning down at the diary in concentration. _Well, except for saying 'fuck'. _

Draco went suddenly very quiet, and she could feel him staring at the top of her head. She looked up. "What?"

He looked on the verge of saying something scathing, but seemed to decide better of it. "Nothing," Draco snapped, then turned back to the ancient tome in his lap, a very sour expression on his face. _What? What did I -_

_- oh. _

"It's not an insult," Ginny said quietly. "She's a really brilliant witch." _And it's all the same after all, my blood, my heritage, it was always dirty – except it's not, not really, everything's dirty and nothing is, except that someone makes it – makes it -_

_- it's not alive, it just . . thinks it is. _

_And if Muggles don't have souls, then what do they hate with? Hated them because they hated me – where's Riddle, where's that devil-spawn little bastard – they couldn't have souls, couldn't, just walking corpses – just meat – just –_

_- but I let them make me, let them twist me, and I won't anymore. I have a soul. _

"Right," said Draco shortly, not looking up. _He's being careful of me again. _

"I'm a Mudblood too, you know," she said, challenging. _Maybe everything has a soul and no one's blood is dirty – only dirty to spill it – waste it – burned her at the stake for a witch and a thousand years later I killed my father –_

_- but not yet, I didn't, not me. The other. I was just words on a page, just ink and sinking and fading – dying - _

_- but I'm the one with a soul now. I'm the one that's real. _

"No you're not," he retorted without the slightest hesitation. "You're a Weasley, or at least you were born one - not that that's much to brag about, but you're not a Mudblood." His tone suggested she'd said something awful about herself, and needed reassuring.

"You mean this body's not," Ginny countered, ignoring the jab at her family. _He doesn't really mean it anymore anyway, it's just habit, just - little ghost of a rat trying to swim in the air -_

"Well, yeah," Draco agreed. "Whoever's in your head, your body's not - I mean, your blood, literally, it's not -"

"If my body's one thing and . . and what's in my head is something else, why can't her body be just a body and what's in her head be something else?" Ginny pressed. "She's a witch, whatever she's made of."

"Because - because that's just fucking different," Draco argued, beginning to sound annoyed. "You're a special case, Weasel, and Granger's not."

"No, she is," Ginny insisted. "I mean – I mean I'm not. It has to either matter or not, and if it's 'not' in my case, then it can't matter at all." She paused; he looked suddenly tense and wary. _Doesn't like me to say that things don't matter – afraid I'll decide nothing matters, again – better for it all just to end -_ "Don't go all scared of me now, I'm okay, I'm just figuring this out while I'm talking ."

"I never said it didn't matter in your case," Draco cut her off. "I wasn't saying your body doesn't m-" and he cut himself off, seeming to hear his own words, and his pale complexion went suddenly, faintly pink. Ginny just blinked. _He's . . blushing. _

_I've never seen him blush before. I've seen him red in the face but only because he was angry or upset or - or something bad. Never just because - _

Ginny felt an answering flush rising up her cheeks.

"I never said your blood didn't matter," Draco pressed on determinedly, in an irritated, embarrassed sort of tone that almost made Ginny want to giggle. "I said your blood's just fine, even if it is Weasel blood, it's still wizard blood."

"But Tom's blood wasn't," Ginny retorted. "Not at all on either side, his father was a Muggle and -" _and he wants to kill his father, for what his father did to me, to his mother - my mother's dead too, you know – and I killed my father, only it wasn't me, it was the other - _"and Slytherin's wife was Muggleborn anyway, so -"

"- so Tom doesn't have blood anymore, Weasel," Draco interrupted sharply.

"And he's still here, I'm still here without my blood, so what does it matter?" Ginny pressed. "It doesn't matter at all. I thought it did, I thought it mattered more than anything, but it's really nothing -"

"You never thought it mattered more than a damned thing," Draco insisted, tone going angry with an edge of scared. "Not you, not Ginny Weasley."

"There's just one of me," Ginny answered quietly. "Just one of me here, anyway," she amended, after a moment. _And I think that doesn't make very much sense, maybe, but it's still true. I was and then I wasn't and then I was again, and it's all one long thread, it just got tied in knots a bit -_

Draco glared at her.

"Fine," he snapped sullenly, after a long moment. "Right. One of you. But the one of you that's sitting over there, that's got a body to sit with, isn't a Mudblood."

"Would it matter if I was?" Ginny pressed, exasperated. "Would you not be sitting here with me, if I were?" _But you would - I have to think you would because if you wouldn't - if you wouldn't I wouldn't be here, wouldn't be me, would have frozen - _

His gaze snapped up to her face, looking very trapped. "You're not," he repeated stubbornly.

"But if I was?" _If I was just Tom, had only ever been Tom. _

_But it wouldn't be the same at all, would it, because then I wouldn't be a girl - and he blushed -_

"But you're not, and being able to do magic is better," he pronounced. "It just is, like having two legs is better than being missing one, and that's not - it's just fucking reality, Weasel, so you can stop looking at me like that. That doesn't make me like my father, that's not how he thought." He held her gaze angrily, demanding commentary.

"I wasn't thinking that," Ginny assured him.

"Good," Draco snapped back. "Because I'm not. I'm not one fucking thing like him, and I'm going to kill him."

"I know," Ginny answered. He glowered a moment longer, waiting for her to say something more. She didn't, and he looked back down to his book. _I remember wanting to kill my father - not the father I have now, but the other - the one I never had at all, the one who didn't want me - didn't want me to exist -_

_- but I do. I'm here, still here, Tom Marvolo Riddle after my father and my grandfather and that just is, just a name, just flesh, just a thing you can't change and I think I should be trying to talk him out of it - not for his father's sake but because it won't make things better - won't change anything and once it's done you can never take it back - _

_- not just because it's wrong to murder someone? Isn't that a good enough reason by itself, why he shouldn't, why I shouldn't let him? _

_But it's not up to me to let him or not. _

"That should make Granger happy, shouldn't it?" Draco asked, breaking the silence, still looking down at the book.

"I don't know," Ginny said. "Maybe." _It won't, though, it won't make it better. It'll just be more blood -_

_- and I don't know what Hermione would want, because I haven't been paying her any attention, and she's supposed to be my friend. I'm supposed to be her friend. _

"It's all just a fucking waste," Draco muttered, not looking up. "I'm not saying it's the same - her parents - they were just fucking Muggles but it's still just a fucking waste."

_You're cursing too much again. _

Ginny didn't respond, and the room went quiet, except for the dripping of a sink.

* * *

Honestly, I don't know why I don't hate you. I'd have lots of good reasons. You broke everything, messed everything up, and then you just left. And I don't hate you.

I miss you, and if I hate you at all, it's for that. I hate that you left, like everybody else. I'm sick of people saying they're leaving because it's better, or it's how it has to be, what they have to do. At least you didn't make excuses. At least you just went.

I want to hate you. I want to hate you a whole lot. It would make things a lot easier.

But things aren't easier. Things aren't simpler. I don't hate you for pulling Buffy out of heaven because hating you would be sort of like wishing her back there, wishing her gone again, and I don't. I'm not sorry you did it. And if I can't be sorry for it, I can't ask you to be. It was a messed up thing to do, messed up and wrong and probably technically evil, and I'm glad I'm not the one who has to live with it. I guess you had to be in a pretty bad place yourself to do something like that, and between being you, and having a broken arm, I'll take the arm. If that's how it had to be for Buffy to be here again, I'd break my arm all over again every day of the week and twice on Sunday, to keep it that way.

* * *

"I should probably be heading back," Hermione said reluctantly, standing at the edge of Hogsmeade near the path to Hogwarts and fussing with her gloves. The edges of her sleeves were still wet and beginning to freeze.

"I will walk back with you," Viktor offered.

"You really shouldn't," she argued, though she didn't want to. _Can't you just come back with me and stay - or take me with you - can't you take me back to your house and last summer, with the phone in my room, and calling home on Sundays, can't I just go back there and pick up the phone and call home and my father will answer - Maggie, pick up the other line, it's Hermione! So, 'Mione, how's David Beckham this week? _

_Dad, don't call him that! _

_Fine, fine, spoil all my fun - Maggie! Pick up! _

"It's going to get dark, and you can't apparate away inside the grounds, you'd end up walking back here alone."

_I don't want to go back there. I got an eighty-two percent on my transfiguration quiz last week, and McGonagall asked if I was alright, asked how I was doing with my OWL workbook, and I realized I hadn't even looked at it in four days. _

_And I can't tell you that, can't just be a mess and a tragedy and nothing else because - because you'll leave, and I know you have to leave, but please - please don't grow tired of me - I'm trying so hard - _

"I do not mind," he said with a shrug, shoulders hunched, and she knew it wasn't cold enough for that to be the reason he was folding in on himself. _Everything's off between us, all off and strange and wrong, you can't leave like this. _

"But I'd be worried," she insisted.

"I will be worried if you walk back alone, even in the light," Viktor pressed. "Those people back there -"

"They were just talking, they wouldn't have the nerve to do anything," Hermione retorted. "And besides, I've been practicing, the spells you've sent me, I can take care of -"

"I do not want to think of you having to use the spells I've sent you," Viktor cut her off. "I do not want you to take care of yourself, I do not want you to need to take care of yourself, not if I -"

"Well, I do," Hermione snapped. "I don't stay locked in my room with wards up all week when you're not here, you know."

There was a pause, in which Hermione had plenty of time to hear the ugly echo of her words. Viktor didn't reply, just glared at her, and then down at his boots, his shoulders rounding even further.

_Oh no - oh no I didn't mean it! _

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice coming out high and brittle. "I didn't mean -"

"No, you are right," Viktor cut her off, sounding miserable and angry. "I do not like it at all, but you are right."

"I shouldn't have said it like that," she responded, feeling sick with fear at the tone of his voice. _Please, please don't - you can't give up on me - _

He shrugged.

It went quiet, the only sound the noise of the town at their back, muffled conversation and footsteps and carriage wheels churning through the slush. It was snowing just a little, half-heartedly, almost too lightly to count.

"I - I don't want to leave with you angry at me," Hermione said a moment later, stepping hesitantly closer. He looked up, still glowering.

"I am not angry with you," he insisted, though he sounded it, and frustrated. "I am angry with -" and he made a gesture back at Hogsmeade. "I was wanting for us just to have normal dinner, with no - no people wanting me to sign things, and - those people -"

"I'm sorry," Hermione said again. _How many times have I said that tonight? It's a useless thing to say - I can't stand everyone apologizing to me, everyone being so sorry, but now I can't think of anything else - _

_- can't think of anything but that woman laughing, laughing, and a puddle of blood in my mother's skull and lacerations to the extremities and it's not bloody dinner conversation, it's not an political talking point, but that's all they are to those people and I never made them understand, I never warned them, didn't protect them and I'm sorry, I'm just angry and sorry and there's nothing else left -_

"Why do you apologize for them?" Viktor scowled.

_Because it's my fault, they were talking about me, it happened because of me - because I don't fit anywhere -_

"I just wish you'd had a better time," Hermione said.

"Next weekend, we will find somewhere else to go," Viktor offered. "Somewhere quiet."

"Okay," she agreed, a little too quickly, and he was watching her a little too closely. _We can go anywhere - just don't go -_

"Unless you do not want to?" he asked.

"No, that's fine - "

"We can go back there if you want to - you did not get to eat your food -"

"No, really, I don't care about the food," Hermione insisted. "It doesn't matter." There was a long and awkward pause.

"You do want - you do want me to visit so often?" Viktor asked, hesitant, scuffing his boot in the snow and turning the ground around him to muddy slush. Hermione felt her stomach dropping, a strange blankness seeming to take up the space where everything inside her should have been, were it not all sinking towards her shoes.

"Yes, of course," she said, too calmly. _I don't want to sound that calm, I'm NOT bloody calm, and of course I want you to visit, only not visit, I want you to come and stay and never leave and I'd just implode, I'd just collapse and die if you stopped coming - if you stopped caring, even though I can't, I can't care about anything anymore -_ "If - if you want to, still. If it's not interfering with Quidditch, or - or anything, I don't want to be a bother -"

"You are not a bother," he returned. "I just wanted to be sure - I am taking up so much of your time, visiting so much, I wanted to be sure I wasn't - that you don't need to be doing something else - studying - you seemed like maybe today you were thinking of something else -"

"Oh, no, I'm just - I mean, I suppose I should be studying more, but -" and she ran out of words, shrugging helplessly. _But I miss you, I miss you so badly it hurts and you're not even gone yet. _

He watched her, waiting for her to finish her thought and looking like he wanted to say something.

"I'm boring," Hermione said flatly. _I'm not the person you met, not the person you knew before, and there's no reason you should still want me now - it really wouldn't be fair of me to expect it - _

"No, it is only that -"

"Maybe, in two weeks?" she interjected, before he could tell her what it was only. _I can't hear you say it. I just couldn't stand it. _"We can go somewhere quiet like you were saying, get a private dining room, or - or something - "

He was staring down into the mud again. "If that is what you want," he muttered. It was turning to a hazy dusk around them, and there was the sudden amber glow of candles from behind them as the street lamps were lit.

"I - I really have to go," Hermione said, biting her lip, wondering if he would still offer to walk with her and hoping, selfishly, that he would. _But he can't - it wouldn't be worth it, the chance of something happening to him on the walk back, just for another half-hour together, and I'm a terrible person, a terrible, weak, awful person because I want him to talk me into it anyway - _

"I suppose I will be seeing you in two weeks, then," he said, and didn't sound happy about it at all.

"Right," she agreed, and forced herself to smile.

They stood there, watching each other, and then he took a hesitant half-step and she shuffled a little forward, and somehow the space between them vanished without Hermione really being aware of either of them moving.

His lips were cold, his breath very hot and tasting of butterbeer, his shoulders broad and bony as she clung to his neck, not wanting to let go. His arms went around her tight enough to make her ribs ache. When he broke the kiss she didn't let go, tucking her face into his neck and burying herself in the smell of his hair, just for a moment, and his arms tightened almost to the point of pain.

She felt colder, when she had to step back, the air on her face suddenly biting.

"Goodbye," she said, breathlessly, feeling as though she wanted to start bawling, but knowing her eyes were dry, her expression calm. _I've gotten so good at that - too good at that, I've forgotten how to do anything else - _

"Goodbye," he returned, and again he seemed on the verge of saying something else, but instead he pulled his wand out of his robes and backed away a few steps. With a loud pop, he was gone, leaving only a muddy, churned-up spot in the snow where he'd been.

Hermione stood there, arms wrapped around herself and shivering. The light was rapidly sinking, the contrast between the streetlamps and the darkening path she needed to take growing ever more apparent, but she felt rooted to the spot. _He would want you to get going - wouldn't want you walking back in the dark - wouldn't want you standing here like some ridiculous, maudlin, pathetic - _

She gave herself a determined shake, and forced herself to start moving. "I love you," she whispered down into her scarf, walking away, and not crying.

* * *

That's not forgiveness, that's just a statement of fact. I guess it's almost a thank you. I still don't know why I'm writing any of this down.

So, I guess I'll stop.

* * *

Willow had lost track of the number of times she'd re-read the letter in the weeks since its arrival, but the creases where it bent to fold into its enveloped had begun to wear through several days ago, creating feathery little cracks in the ink of the text. She stored it flat now, inside the cover of one of her textbooks, the envelope still stowed away in a drawer. It wasn't as if she was likely to forget the return address, but she couldn't bring herself to throw it away.

_It's very stream-of-consciousness. Informal. _

_Like she was upset. Or scared. _

_But the handwriting looks normal – not rushed or sloppy or anything and she didn't misspell anything – not that she would because this is Dawn, the only other person I know who read the dictionary for fun – and – and – _

_- and this is not helping me learn Transfiguration. I'm here and they're there and that's . . that's just that, and I need to focus on the 'here' type stuff. They know where to find me now and that's just gotta be that. _Willow sighed, and carefully tucked the letter away, opening the textbook to a chapter midway through and beginning to read determinedly.

There was a hesitant knock on her door. Willow closed her eyes and grimaced, resisting the urge to groan. _I'm just not fated to study. Just not meant to happen. _She pushed herself to her feet and went to answer the door.

_And who the heck is knocking? Severus doesn't knock anymore, the House Elves seem to have religious objections to it, and nobody else ever visits. _

It was Harry, looking nearly as nervous as he looked exhausted.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Professor -" he began.

"No, it's fine, come in," Willow answered, frowning, and he shuffled awkwardly into her sitting room. She glanced behind her, focused just a moment and made the bedroom door swing shut. _No need to traumatize him with the view of my laundry._ He noticed, of course, and swallowed visibly. _Oh, right. Wandless magic. Still freaky to these guys. Oops. _

"Everything okay?" she asked, and his eyes darted back to her face.

"I – I suppose so," he said. "I was just wondering – if it's not too much trouble- " _if he gets any more polite it's going to make my teeth ache_ " – if you could possibly, when you have the time, show me how – how you do magic without a wand?"

Willow blinked. _Okay, not what I was expecting. _

"I don't think too many people have noticed," Harry rushed on. "And none of us would tell – well, I can't promise for Malfoy, but none of the rest of us would tell, we all know you're not a Dark witch."

"It's illegal here, right?" Willow asked, trying to get her footing in the conversation and cringing at the utter confidence in his tone. _Right. Not a dark witch. Lately, anyway. _"Wandless magic."

"Yes," Harry answered flatly, and waited. "I know I'm asking a lot," he pressed on after a minute, "that you could be arrested, and -"

_- and why am I even having to think about this? This is why I'm here, isn't it? _

"Yes," Willow cut him off. "I mean, no." He frowned in confusion. "Yes, I'll teach you, but not just you. Ron and Hermione too, at least, and Draco, and – it should be the whole class, shouldn't it? It really should be everybody."

"But -" Harry began.

"No buts," Willow said firmly. "You're right, it's a thing you guys need to know, you're all half hamstrung with the way you rely on wands, and I'm a big old moron for not having thought of that myself. Or, well, I thought of it, but I didn't think of, y'know, doing something about it, 'cause of the whole illegality issue, and -"

"But I'm the one who'll have to face Voldemort," Harry interrupted forcefully. "He's going to be coming after me. They should know how to defend themselves, sure, but I'm the one who's -"

_- the Slayer and you're not. _

_And I was sixteen, and Giles – he didn't ask me, never told me, because I was just sixteen, and – and hell no. _

"If you think that," Willow interrupted, "If you think for half a millisecond that those friends of yours are going to let you face off with a dark wizard alone? You are probably the stupidest person I've ever met."

He shut his mouth with a snap, very obviously trying not to look affronted.

"And you're not the stupidest person I've ever met," Willow went on, more gently. "So no going stupid over this, okay? You're all going to fight, and you're all going to be in danger, and maybe some of you are going to get hurt and maybe some of you are going to die, and none of that – none of that is your fault and none of that is anything you can change."

_And that's . . true. That's really, really true, and why is it so much easy to tell it to someone else? _

"I don't want my friends to be hurt," Harry protested. "It's not their -"

"Yes, it is," Willow cut him off again. "It is their fight. It's – it's everybody's fight, every single breathing, pulse-having body's fight."

"You're not going to try to teach the entire school," Harry argued, jaw set stubbornly. _And I think I feel a little better about all this, seeing that. The politeness and the shyness and all, that's nice, but that's not what this kid is made of, and that's good. That'll maybe keep him alive a little longer. _

"The whole school wouldn't want to learn," Willow retorted, and then paused, her high school graduation springing to mind. "Though – actually – I'm not going to try to teach the whole school," Willow sighed, seeing his increasingly worried expression. "I'd get thrown in Azkaban and Dumbledore'd lose his job and that'd all be bad. I'm just going to offer it to my class, and anybody who wants to walk out, can. Okay?"

"Ron and Hermione won't," Harry said, not sounding happy about it. "Neville won't, even."

"Probably not," Willow agreed.

* * *

Maybe I won't even have the nerve to send this. But if I do . . if I do, don't write back. Buffy doesn't know I'm writing, and she's sort of just not dealing with this right now. I think it's better that way.

Probably a little bit too sincerely,  
Dawn

* * *

TBC . .


	37. A Conflict of Interest

Title: A Conflict of Interest

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled guinea pigs.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" and "Half-Blood Prince" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the books, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the books and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

* * *

"It's not really me I'm worried about – it's Dumbledore. 'Cause, I mean, if they go running to Dumbledore I think that'll be okay. I don't think he'll mind. Much. Probably not at all. But definitely not much. But they might tell parents, or older siblings or other teachers like – oh God Reed!" Willow paused, giving Severus an utterly horror-struck expression. "Nobody'd tell Reed, would they? He'd go straight -"

"- to the Ministry," Severus finished for her. "At which point you would most certainly be arrested."

Willow frowned. "But if Dumbledore didn't know about it, then it wouldn't affect him, right? They couldn't get him fired or -"

"Have you ever so much as seen a Dementor from a distance, let alone spent time in one's company?" Willow's frown deepened; there was a muscle in Severus' jaw that was beginning to twitch.

"You're not helping," she complained.

"I should certain hope not," he snapped back, and she flinched a little at the contemptuous edge to his voice. _He's always snappy and insulting and stuff, just . . just he doesn't usually sound like he means it._

_Okay, yes he does. But he doesn't usually . . well . . really sound like he means it, or something, or . . he looks like he wants to kill something right now. _

"Did I catch you at a really bad time or something?" Willow asked, tone a little annoyed, trying hard for it not to be a little hurt. _He's always like this. Nothing new. Most days it's amusing. _"'Cause if you really need to finish that or – or they're really bad and infuriating essays -" she gestured at the papers on his desk.

With sharp, deliberate movements, Severus pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his quill, then capped his inkwell. The handkerchief was thrown down on top of the stack of papers. The red ink he'd been using for marking looked disconcertingly bloody against the white cloth. He stood, pushed in his chair, and walked around the desk; his eyes never left her face.

"Okay then," Willow responded. _So I have his complete attention, then, I guess. _She crossed her arms, an unconsciously defensive gesture against the weight of that decidedly unfriendly glare. He followed suit, only on him it didn't look defensive – she realized what she was doing and very determinedly dropped her arms to her sides.

_This is just Severus. He's not scary._

_Not scary in a bad way. _

_Remember what he looks like with his hair all in his face and rumpled, in the morning? Remember how you don't mind that he's cranky and has a temper and can't so much even spell 'nice'? _

"Don't do this," he said flatly.

"Don't do what?" Willow snapped. _Don't risk myself a little for the sake of actually doing something, actually giving these kids something useful? _"Don't teach them the one thing that -"

"Do not allow Potter -" and he all but spat the name.

"Oh, you're kidding me!" Willow exclaimed. "You're going all tall-dark-and-scary on me just because this was Harry's idea?"

"That boy has no regard for the consequences of his actions, no respect for anyone or -"

"We're not having that discussion," Willow cut him off angrily. "This discussion that we're having? Really not that one. I had the idea myself before, he just happened to remind me that -"

"He did not 'just happen' -" Severus began to protest derisively.

"- that if I'm not willing to take some risks where I need to then there's no point in my being here or having that class at all!" Willow continued right over top of his objections. "This is not about your Harry issues!" _And I really wanted your opinion and your help and I get – this. Severus Snape the 4th year with a grudge. _

_Would have been really, really nice to be able to talk this over with Severus-the-grown-up, y'know. _

_Because I'm scared a bit. I don't exactly like breaking the rules all over the place, and bad things happened last time I did that, and - and damn it I'm having issues here and why'd you have to go have other issues so that we're just all issue-having and – and bleh! _

"My Harry issues," Severus repeated flatly.

"Well, you do," Willow insisted. "Have issues, with Harry. But that's not what I want to talk -"

"Of course not," Severus retorted, tone gone deadly smooth and calm. "You'd like to retain your smug, self-righteous moral superiority unquestioned, and just -"

"Hey!" Willow exclaimed, feeling very bitten by his words. _I mean, he always says – says stuff like that, but – _

_- but usually he doesn't mean it. _

_At least I think. Maybe he does. Maybe he always means it and he doesn't respect me at all and – _

"- and just humor the nasty old man so long as it's not too inconvenient for you," Severus finished.

"I'm having no urge whatsoever to humor you right now!" Willow shot back.

"The feeling is quite mutual!" Severus retorted, calm cracking and voice raising, taking half a step towards her, one hand releasing his elbows and making a gesture towards her as if he wanted to grab and perhaps shake.

She took a step back, lips pressed together, shoulders tensed. He stopped; she glared. _Do not think that hand is getting anywhere near me with you in the mood you're in, Mister._

Severus refolded his arms, his expression darkening further; Willow took a small step forward, glowering, retaking her ground regardless of the fact that it left her standing a little too close to him for her present comfort.

"So you're usually humoring me, then, huh?" she demanded. She'd meant it to be sharp and clipped, and it was, but it was also wounded and there was no hiding it. "That's what you just said, right? Very mutual feeling of non-humoring."

"You are twisting my words to suit your own purposes," he responded, sneering, "not that I should be surprised, it's such a very Gryffindor thing to -"

"Did I miss the part where I got sorted at all," Willow exclaimed indignantly, "let alone into Gryffindor? Not that you have issues with -"

"Well you are apparently determined to act as a simpering acolyte of the cult of Potter!" Severus shouted.

"So nice to know what you really think of me!" she shot back. "I'm sorry I bothered you! I guess I'll just go now."

Willow backed away, turning around and trying very hard to be too angry to feel how badly his words stung. _Yep, that's me, just latching onto the nearest available resident hero, incapable of independent thought. Nice to know that's apparently what everybody thinks of me. _

_That's not fair and this is not about Giles – _

_- but it's not about Harry either and the hell with fair, I don't want to be fair, he's not being fair, he's being a big old jerk-person for real and – and I need to go now before I start crying. _

"Willow -" she heard Severus behind her, his footsteps coming across the room to where she was almost out the door. His tone was still angry, but controlled, all awkward and restrained. Something in her gut lurched.

_He didn't mean it, you know he didn't – _

_- but he said it, and it hurt. _

"Don't," she said, pausing with her hand clenched hard on the doorjam, focusing on the feeling of her fingernails trying to bite into the wood and pushing back against the incipient tears. "Just – don't say anything else right now." He looked, in equal parts, like she'd hit him and like he wanted to hit her. "I'll see you later," she offered in a voice that wobbled, and then fled.

* * *

"- cannot be allowed," Severus finished. He thought he'd sounded calm, reasonable and eminently logical through his entire argument; the vaguely annoyed, vaguely amused expression on the Headmaster's face seemed to suggest otherwise.

"I see," Albus said, taking some manner of sweet from a jar on his desk and nibbling it contemplatively.

"You will speak to her, then," Severus pressed. "You'll stop this -" _arrogant, suicidal idiocy _"- ill-advised plan of Potter's." _Because if you do not, and anything – anything at all – happens to her because of this, I will kill him, boy or no, debt or no, he will die. _

_Which will erase not one bit of the harm done, will not bring her back._

Albus popped the rest of his sweet into his mouth, and frowned, then leaned over his desk to comb through his candy dish, searching for something. Severus knew the old man well enough to know he was considering his next words carefully; the Headmaster's face lit up with childish glee a moment later and he produced a sweet rapped in brown and black striped foil. He held it out to Severus.

"Butter rum toffee," he said, smiling. "You like those, don't you?" He did; he took the candy with a small nod of thanks, tried to look calm, and resisted the urge to reach across the gadget-strewn desk and strangle his employer. He'd had years of practice at that, and thought he carried it off rather well.

Severus tucked the candy into his pocket; Albus frowned at that, his carefully crafted expression of benign good-will fading into one of impatience, and frustration. This was the real Albus, and knowing that the younger man knew it, Severus wondered why the Headmaster even bothered with the mask when dealing with him.

_Perhaps just because it's easier – because a part played so long and so well ceases to be a mask._

"I'm sorry if I gave you that impression, Severus," Albus said seriously, sighing. "But no, I won't speak to her, and neither will you."

"I've already -" Severus began stiffly, feeling the small prick of panic in his gut begin to expand into some huge, gaping thing that threatened to swallow him if he didn't push it back. _He will get her killed. Worse than killed. Reduced to a drooling shell of a thing, fodder for those soul-sucking things – and he'll sleep well that night, because of course anything Potter needs is justified – and even Albus can't see it, can't see what a deluded little fool – _

_- she doesn't see either. She was supposed to see, was supposed to be better than that, was supposed to trust my judgement - _

_- according to whom? When exactly was that conclusion reached? Was it before or after she berated you about Longbottom, before or - _

"Yes, I'm sure you have already," Dumbledore cut him off, sighing again with increasing impatience. "I'd suggest chocolates, along with a sincere apology. I believe she likes the ones with little candied fruits in them."

"I've nothing to apologize for!" Severus exploded.

In the enclosed space of the Headmaster's office, his raised voice echoed; the reverberations seemed to accentuate the cracking, panicked edge, beating it back into his eardrums until he felt very tempted to break something noisily, just to stop the sound. The little ticking and whirring whatever-it-was to the Headmaster's right looked like it might provide a very satisfactory degree of racket if shredded. The Headmaster himself looked entirely unimpressed at Severus' outburst.

"Of course," said Albus, very dryly. _Go to hell, you smug bastard, _thought Severus, though without real feeling.

"The Ministry has gone mad, the rest of the world madder," he tried again, with a forced and brittle calm. "If she were discovered in this, now -"

"You've made that argument already, Severus," Albus pointed out. "I would have thought you'd be the last person to need reminding that these are desperate times."

_And we cannot waste any resource available to us, _went unsaid. It was true. It was insupportable. _Not her. _

_Cissa – _

_- not her. I cannot – I am a retched useless old failure, a fool, a pathetic useless fool and you cannot take her from me. I don't remember how to live without her._

_And it doesn't matter. It's less than insignificant, her loss, your loss, and you've probably already lost her, haven't you, you've said unforgivable things. _

"Let her train others – myself, Minerva, those you know you can trust - the fate of the world does not hinge on Potter," Severus tried, one last time. He couldn't keep the hatred from his voice at the boy's name.

"Nor does it hinge on you," Albus returned neatly, and there was nothing gentle in his voice, nothing benign or forgiving. "What needs to be done will be done, Severus, and we will all live with it. Good day."

* * *

"Hi," Willow said, forcibly cheerful, sitting down next to Minerva McGonagall at Monday's breakfast. The older woman looked surprised, then a trifle puzzled, looking first at Willow and then down the table – past the Headmaster, Hagrid, and Pomona Sprout – to Severus.

He sat bent over a bowl of dry cereal, so hunched that his nose was almost in the bowl, shoveling it into his mouth mechanically and frowning as if it offended him.

"Pass the butter?" Willow asked, voice unnaturally high. Minerva reached for the butter dish while frowning at the younger professor.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

"Everything's fine!" Willow chirped, too quickly, and her eyes also slid down the table towards the Potions Master before snapping back to Minerva's face. "I mean, there's no reason things wouldn't be fine, I just thought a change of scenery would be good and – it's good. Fine. Thanks." She took the butter dish and knife; it rattled faintly in her hand.

"You're welcome," Minerva said carefully, pressing her lips together and glancing back at Severus, who was still practically falling into his cereal bowl. _So they've fought, then. That was only a matter of time. _

It saddened her, which struck her immediately as ridiculous, in the circumstances; here they sat on the verge of war and she felt herself going misty-eyed over the possibility of a love-affair gone wrong.

_But he's such a miserable bastard, the poor boy, and it was good to see him happy for a while. _

_And he certainly never deceived her. She knew what she was getting into – _

Minerva cast a not entirely charitable glance at the young woman to her right; who smiled back nervously.

_- oh, and that's not fair. He'd try the patience of a saint. _

"So, uh," Willow began, "So that last Quidditch game was exciting, huh?" So far as Minerva knew, the younger woman couldn't have scored a Quidditch match of her life depended on it, let alone found one exciting.

"He's an ill-mannered, ill-tempered, generally insufferable git," Minerva responded, deciding that at long as she was going to be ridiculously sentimental, she might as well also be shockingly blunt, "but if he doesn't genuinely care for you, I'll eat my hat. Do try not to break his heart."

Willow paled visibly, gaped, opened her mouth as if to say something, shut it again, and then flushed. Minerva frowned, then sighed. _Oh, I probably shouldn't have said that. None of my business, really. _

"That was uncalled-for of me," she said apologetically, and stood, patting the still-speechless Willow's shoulder. "Don't mind an old woman." _Ian, I do miss you. I get along, but I do miss you still.

* * *

_

"Ginny?" asked Colin Creevy, sounding shocked and horribly disappointed as the red-head stacked her books. Ron turned around and smacked the younger boy in the back of the head.

"Hey!" Professor Rosenberg interjected. "No hitting!"

"You go ahead, Gin," Ron said. "No need for you to get mixed up in – in anything like this."

Ginny tensed, and Hermione waited for her to tell her brother just where he could shove his patronizing tone; she didn't, though, she kept her head down and a second later, returned to strapped her books together. Then she was darting guilty out the door, without a backward glance.

Cho Chang had glanced backward before she left, as if she hadn't been quite sure she was doing the right thing. Roger Davies' parting look had been less benevolent, like he felt he should be saying something, perhaps urging the rest of them to follow. The two Hufflepuffs had just looked scared, all but running out the door.

_They're going to tell. One of them will tell someone, that someone will tell someone, and we'll be caught – she'll be caught – by the Ministry – _

_- by the Ministry who decided last week that Confunding an entire crowd of protestors so that three of them walked into traffic was a reasonably means of crowd control. The Ministry who think it's good that the Dementors seem to be breeding, that the numbers at Azkaban are going up, that they're being spotted off-shore in Cornwall, because of course they'll be needed - _

_- and they're the side of right and truth and justice, aren't they? They're the ones who think there's something to fuss about, that it's not all just a private matter, that something has to be done - _

_I have to do something. I can't just let that happen, let them tell, let Willow be caught and thrown in Azkaban._

"Okay," Willow said, with a nervously expelled breath. "So. This is everybody – you're all staying?"

"W-we're -" Neville paused, looked around, checking that no one was going to contradict him. Harry was frowning fiercely, but said nothing. "We're all staying," Neville proclaimed, sounding petrified but very determined.

Hermione could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, a feeling like buzzing static filling her head. _This is going to go wrong, this is all going to go very wrong and she's going to pay for it and she can't – and Neville can't – can't let that happen, have to do something. _

_I know how. How to Obliviate someone. I could do it. _

_Keep us all safe._

_It's not even Dark magic, there are people who do it every day for the Ministry – _

_- the useless incompetent Ministry, and it's wrong, it's violating their minds and their memories and I would never want that done to me, I'd feel used, raped, not safe – not safe in my own head and people have a right to be safe in their own minds whatever the Ministry thinks - _

_- but it's not safe. Can't trust them. They left. They don't understand._

_That we're at war. Not the Wizarding world, us. Here in this room. We're the ones left to do something._

_To protect ourselves. Viktor doesn't like to think of me having to do the things he's teaching me, but I'm learning anyway – I've learned well – I know how – _

_- oh God I don't want to do this. _

"Okay," Willow said again. The professor's eyes scanned the classroom much as Neville's had, taking in Fred and George and Angelina, Draco Malfoy off to himself – Hermione looked quickly away from him. _He's here to learn how to kill his father – his father who killed my father – _To the front of the classroom sat Neville and Colin with Ginny's empty seat between them – _something's wrong with her, really wrong, really wrong and I don't have room in my head to care – _then herself, then Blaise sitting next to Harry, carefully not next to Ron.

_Ten of us – an even ten, what are the odds of that? It's odd, it's wrong – it's wrong and someone has to be willing to do what's wrong, don't they, someone who at least cares about what's right has to be willing to do what's wrong or they win, they win because they don't care – no one else should have to die for me, for my conscience – _

"Alright," Willow sighed, nodding, seeming to steel herself. She was wringing her hands. _She's only a few years older than me. _"Everybody take out a pencil."

_She's only a few years older than me, and a Muggleborn Wilder, and they'll throw her to the Dementors and never blink. _

"I'll be right back!" Hermione blurted out. Her voice, for once, was not calm and level. It cracked and shook, like her legs, almost knocking her chair over as she pushed it back. Harry glanced sharply up, and she met his eyes for a petrifying millisecond in which she knew that he knew exactly what she was going to do, and wasn't going to stop her. _But he's not getting up to do it himself, is he? Why isn't he the one – _

_- no, stop, it's not like that, he never asked for things to be like this either and it's Harry, not Harry Potter but . . but just Harry who is my friend, and I shouldn't want it to be him, better than it's me. _

Draco Malfoy was watching her as she went out the door, and she looked down, away from his unreadable expression.

_They can't have gone very far – probably to the library, Willow said she'd take papers as an alternate assignment, and they shouldn't suspect me, not Hermione Granger, prefect, know-it-all, they're probably surprised I didn't leave right away with them – of course, will have to try to get them one by one, or all together someone will have a chance to – to scream – _

_- screaming and sound of glass shattering and – and it's not safe, and I have to! I can't - _

Staring down at the stones rushing past beneath her shoes, Hermione almost ran right into Ginny. They were perhaps halfway down the hall, not even to the stairs; the younger girl still had all her books strapped to her back. She was obviously coming back.

_Ginny. I hadn't even thought about Ginny – I wouldn't have – not her, she can be trusted, I wouldn't have – just the others – _

"Hi," Hermione said reflexively, frozen in place.

"Hi," Ginny said back, looking just as caught.

They stood there, staring at one another.

"You were -" Hermione began, at the same time Ginny said, "I didn't think you'd -" and they both stopped again. Hermione bit her lip. Ginny stuck a hand into a robe pocket, fiddling with something.

"I was coming back," Ginny said, and Hermione thought she saw something shifting in her eyes – something that didn't look entirely like Ginny, something that weighed and measured and seemed to bore into Hermione's skull. Her pulse had been loud and demanding before; it was suddenly deafening. "I wasn't really leaving."

"I – I wasn't either," Hermione confessed. "I was just – I just had to -" She didn't finish. _I can trust Ginny, can't I?_

_There's something wrong with her. Something really and deeply and fundamentally wrong and I should have made time. I should have found a way – _

_- but that's all irrelevant because I can't say it. I can't even say it, not to Ginny, not to anyone who ever thought I was a good person. _

"It's taken care of," Ginny blurted out. "It's – I knew it had to be so I just – someone had to. And I think it's good that I did because it reminded me of – it made me think of something else and I think – never mind. It's just done. Don't tell."

Hermione just blinked, too shocked for words.

_Ginny? No. She doesn't mean – she can't mean – _

_- but she does, doesn't she? She took care of it. _

"You were going to too, weren't you?" Ginny asked, and there was an edge of challenge to the question.

"No!" Hermione snapped, the denial automatic. _Would I have? I'm never going to know if I would have – _"I mean – what're you -"

"Don't lie!" Ginny snapped, and the tone wasn't Ginny-like at all. "This is hard," the younger girl went on, in a softer tone. "This is – just don't lie. You have to trust me." She wasn't pleading, she was ordering. Hermione swallowed hard. _That's not Ginny. That's not Ginny at all._

_But then, how would you know, with all the attention you haven't paid her? You knew something wrong – you knew and you didn't do anything – _

"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "We are talking about – about altering memories, aren't we?"

"It wasn't safe not to," Ginny agreed, in a conspiratorial hush. "You can't – you can't trust people."

"Ginny -" Hermione began warily, not at all sure how the sentence was supposed to finish. Maybe with, _stop it, you're scaring me. _But Ginny rushed forward and enveloped her in a hug, all too-strong wiry arms and whispery-fine hair that clung to Hermione's sweating neck.

"Thank you," Ginny said, fervent. "I'm glad – I'm glad we're friends. I'm glad I can trust you." It was a childish, off-kilter sort of thing to say. Hermione hugged her back, at a loss as to what else to do. _You're scaring me, you're scaring me very, very badly. _

_I should have been paying attention. I really should have noticed this. _

"So we'll both go back now?" Ginny asked, pulling back, seeming to pull herself back together and sounding like the girl Hermione had known for years again. "If you left your books you can say you just ran to the loo – you felt sick or something – and you found me there, I was upset – and we'll both go back. Okay?"

"O-okay," Hermione agreed. _Going back . . we're not, are we? None of us. None of us are ever going back. _


End file.
